


Just Please Hide Him Here

by organizedrebel



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, Canon Related, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Falling In Love, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, How Do I Tag, I Tried, I don't know when this will be updated, I have no idea what I'm doing oh god, I started this after I saw civil war, I write half of this when I'm buzzed, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm not sure yet, International Travel, Running, Sarcasm Galore, Slow Build, because you're on the run mostly, everyone has a great time, except sometimes they don't, help me, in one case literally, it started partially able to fit in, logical as possible, lots of running, not too many tropes, particularly the last half, probably, reader can cook, reader isn't stupid, so far ;), the reader has a job, the reader is not a shrinking violet, then it exploded, there will be a lot of hand holding, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 67,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14798468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/organizedrebel/pseuds/organizedrebel
Summary: Parallel to "Captain America: Civil War." Proceeds to spiral off into its own plot. Steve has hidden Bucky with you at your house for a short time, or that was the intent. Now everyone is on the run.





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> It begins. It picks up more after this, I promise. This is just laying the groundwork. Please let me know what you think, I'd love to hear.

‘Just please hide him here for a few days,’ Steve had said. ‘He just needs to lay low for a few days,’ he said. ‘He won’t cause any trouble,’ he said.

This and more ran through your mind as you reached up, pulling the knife free from your doorframe with a grunt for the third time that day. You walked across the room to hand it back to Bucky with a slight smile, handle-first. He took it back without touching you. “Think of it this way… If anyone comes for you they won’t be using the front door.”

He merely stared at you silently from behind hair that… really needed washed, if not a trim. Mentally you sighed—he’d barely said a word. Not that you exactly expected him to, after the shit he’d had to deal with, but… a little acknowledgment once in a while would be nice. You weren’t even mad about the marks in the doorframe (mainly because being there meant they weren’t in  _ you _ ).

You returned to the doorway where you’d left the single bag of groceries when you had to duck upon opening the front door, picked it up, locked the door in  _ full view  _ of Bucky, and went to the kitchen to put things away. “It’s almost lunchtime,” you said over your shoulder, more for the purpose of talking to him than to coax any kind of answer out of him. Animals that were scared or wary tended to respond to a kind or calm voice, right? He wasn’t an animal, but the principle should be the same.

“I’m planning on making pizza or something. Everything I picked up is still sealed,” you added, waving the jar of sauce, “So nothing’s poisoned. I didn’t pick up a frozen pizza because… well, come on. That’s heresy.” Pizza was a safe bet, right? For something he’d like? And you wouldn’t be able to tell if the packaging on a frozen pizza had been pierced with a needle or something, but you didn’t add that part. Plus, it was probably something he already knew; Bucky wasn’t stupid.

Quiet and new to various inventions of the 21 st century, yes. Stupid, no—far from it. Very far. About as far as you were from the far side of Pluto. So you didn’t talk to him like he was an idiot, or unintelligent, or like a pet, or like you’d talk to a child. In your eyes, Bucky didn’t need coddled. He needed someone patient. For instance, Steve was incredibly patient when it came to… almost everything, actually, but  _ especially _ when it came to Bucky. So you were trying to adopt the same mindset.

It couldn’t hurt anything, right?

“I picked up something else for you to read if you want.” He didn’t respond. Two untouched  _ TIME _ magazines lay on the island in the kitchen, and you laid the one you’d just picked up on top of those. You figured, if he was going to read something, it probably wouldn’t be fiction and he might want to get caught up on events of the last several decades. You didn’t know when he’d been ‘woken up,’ if indeed a similar thing happened to him as had to Steve, but given that he kept the television in the corner of his eye at all times whenever he was in the living room, you figured he hadn’t been awake all that long.

When you started working with the dough for the pizza, you reflected it was a little disconcerting, getting the feeling someone was watching you and then turning around to find that you were entirely correct. To top that off, Bucky looked really intimidating, all dark colors and hiding his face and big hoodies and height and muscle mass. He reminded you of the ‘bad boy’ type movies liked to portray, except… you weren’t sure Bucky  _ had _ the stereotypical ‘soft spot.’ And he  _ would _ kill someone if it came down to it. This wasn’t a movie—this was your life. And his, now.

Did it bother you that you were sharing your house with, as the newspaper headlines had put it at one point, a ‘stone-cold killer?’ Yes. It gave you the same feeling as you imagined keeping a tiger in the next room over might feel. You couldn’t quite sleep too well, the slightest noises would wake you because  _ what if _ something happened, and you were on edge. The last one you’d countered pretty effectively, if only through sheer willpower.

At one point, when you turned to reach for the sauce, you glimpsed Bucky leaning against the column on the far side of the kitchen, patiently waiting. Or watching. You weren’t sure which, though it could have been both, and you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to know—it was hardly your business what went on in his head and you weren’t going to invade his privacy if you could help it.

You were naturally a private person, and you tried to keep your nose out of others’ affairs. What position were you in to judge, anyway? You were hiding an internationally-wanted (formerly?) hired killer in your house at the pleas of a friend of yours.

You weren’t Steve’s closest friend and you wouldn’t try to imagine yourself as anything different. But you were  _ good _ friends, and you were content with that. One of the bonuses of not being his closest friend was that the officials or higher ups he worked around were barely aware of you, and in this case, that was a very good thing.

So when he’d come to you at an ungodly hour with a terrifying man that he clearly valued, no matter what he said, you couldn’t exactly turn him down. Friends don’t do that shit to each other—say no when the other really needs help, that is. And that’s how Bucky ended up staying in your guest room two days ago, sleeping on the floor beside the bed because the mattress didn’t feel right. You hadn’t taken offense, even though the mattress was fine—he was probably used to sleeping on something harder. The next night, you’d brought an extra blanket in for him and laid it on the end of the bed if he wanted it.

Which reminded you—

“Oh yeah. Bucky?” you asked, washing your hands off in the sink after putting the uncooked pizza into the oven.

Silence answered you, but he was still there, so he was probably listening.

“When I was out I passed a sale on men’s shirts in a department store. Seeing as I’ve only seen you wear that one and it’s worn through at a few points, I’m assuming you didn’t bring any other clothes with you. I had to guess on what size you wear,” you added apologetically, drying your hands off and walking towards your bedroom, “But if it’s really a problem you don’t  _ have _ to wear them.” You wouldn’t expect him to do so if he had a problem with them.

You hadn’t heard him follow you, but he was waiting at the end of the hall when you emerged from your room, a couple of folded articles of clothing in your arms. You handed the first on the stack out to him, and once unfolded it was revealed to be a dark gray variation of what was commonly referred to as a ‘wifebeater.’ You’d never particularly cared for the term.

Something you’d noticed was that even though his face… never really changed, the majority of what Bucky was thinking could be read through his eyes and the very corners of his mouth. But you had to really be  _ looking _ for it. And it was at that faint expression of concern that you held another shirt out, this one navy and loose with long sleeves.

Another thing you’d noticed was that he always wore a hoodie, long sleeves, a jacket, or something that covered his arms almost completely. And what wasn’t covered, a pair of gloves took care of. You wanted to ask so badly, but… if he wanted you to know, or if Steve wanted you to know, one of them would tell you. You’d gotten the wifebeater in the hopes of seeing him in something that didn’t look too hot, but when his eyes relaxed slightly at the sight of long sleeves, you were glad you’d picked up both kinds. Maybe his arms had been burned or something and were badly scarred?

Oh well. You weren’t one to judge.

“Also got you these. If they’re too big, which I doubt will happen, the strings on the front will keep them up.” So saying, you held up a pair of men’s pajama pants in—guess what color?—black. You’d chosen a size up from what you thought would fit Bucky, just in case. It was easier to make something oversized smaller than to do the reverse.

The three articles of clothing now in his possession, you turned and headed for the kitchen with the goal of getting something to drink. You were almost onto the tile when you heard a quiet, “Thanks.”

Startled, you turned back around to find Bucky standing where he had been but there was no one else in the house you knew of, so it was a short leap to guess who it had come from. 

“… You’re welcome.”

Stupid as it might have seemed, the quiet word from the soldier set you to smiling. Reaching up into one of the cabinets, you caught a coffee mug from the top shelf. “I’m gonna make some tea. You want any?” There was no reply, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him shake his head once.

_ Oh well. I guess you can’t expect much right off the bat. _ At least he’d responded, right? That was progress. You turned back to what you were doing, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove to boil. While you waited, you hopped up to sit on the countertop, childishly swinging your legs back and forth. It was just one of those things you’d never quite kick (no pun intended), no matter how old you were. A second glance up to where Bucky had been standing a minute before revealed the space to be empty, but the door to your guest room was cracked where it had been closed before.  _ He probably went to put his new clothes away or something, _ you decided with a mental shrug.

That was about the time your cellphone started ringing. Not long after Steve had dropped Bucky off, you’d changed your ringtone to the sound of an old-style telephone so Bucky wouldn’t cling to the ceiling like a traumatized cat at the abrupt sound. Or worse, shoot your phone out of your hand and potentially end the situation with you missing a finger.

You immediately held your phone up to your ear, giving Bucky a short two-fingered wave off when he abruptly appeared in the hallway again. “Hey, Steve.” Bucky soundlessly made his way closer with narrowed eyes and you held your finger up to your lips in the universal gesture for silence, then put your phone on speaker. You didn’t want to have to relay everything for him, and even though you ran the risk of Bucky hearing  Steve say something about him that you’d rather he not have heard, you weren’t much for starting secrets.

_ “—and you can’t call this phone back no matter what. I won’t have it on me and it’s probably going in the ocean.” _

“You’re using modern technology, I’m amazed.”

_ “Hah, yeah. Look, uh… Bucky… he’s not causing any trouble for you, right? _ ”

“No, absolutely not,” you said honestly, not glancing up at the soldier beside you. Both of you were currently leaning on the counter over your phone. As soon as the words were out of your mouth, you began to have an inkling of what Steve might ask.

_ “You’re sure?” _

“I think I would know if he was irritating the piss out of me, Steve.”

_ “Language. So… how much trouble would it cause you to keep him there another couple of days? _ ”

“Not too much,” you responded, not surprised by the question. You’d expected this. “Things still a little too hot up top?”

_ “Bingo. Listen, I’ve gotta go—“ _

“Yeah, go, go, I get you.” If someone was trying to trace the call, they were getting dangerously close to the time limit. Then again, they wouldn’t have needed to trace the call to find Steve specifically, because if the government heard then they would run voice analysis and figure out who you were. Then boom, they show up at your house with flashbangs, automatics, Vikings, and a dragon or whatever.

_ “Thanks, ____ _ .”

The call ended, and you looked over at Bucky, who was still staring at the phone. Briefly, you attempted to guess what was going through his head with limited success. “… I can clear out my call history if you want,” you offered quietly, gazing at him. “It was just a burn phone, and they wouldn’t be able to find it again, but… I can clear it if you want.” A single nod decided the issue, and with a few taps you’d cleared your cellphone’s call history of the last couple of weeks. “Done.”

Opening your mouth before hesitating, you glanced up again, and his eyes flicked from your phone to you. He blinked and you took that as the ‘go ahead’ sign. “Bucky… I know Steve is asking me to ‘keep you’ here—“  _ Talk about a touchy subject… _ ”—and you and I  _ both _ know that if you really wanted to leave, I couldn’t  _ keep _ you from going, but… please stay, for Steve’s sake as well as yours. Please,” you added again for good measure. Not only did you not want Bucky getting hurt, but Steve had trusted you with his closest and oldest friend, and frankly you didn’t want to let either down.

Your attention returned to the soldier also leaning over the countertop, and to you, it seemed as though he were thinking it over. You didn’t push—in his place, you might well refuse just to prove you could, and he might refuse if you asked again. He didn’t seem like a man of much patience for others.

Not to mention, pressuring him wouldn’t change his mind if he’d already made it. Another thing? Unless it was absolutely vital, pushing someone for a decision was just plain rude.

“… Okay.”

Pushing off from the counter, Bucky retreated from the kitchen, and it was only now that you saw he was wearing the long-sleeved shirt you’d bought him.  _ Guess the one he had really WAS close to falling apart. _ Still, it made you happy—almost happier than you’d been when he’d actually said something out loud again—and set you to smiling once again. In a sense, it was acceptance. Of a sort. Or… close enough.

You poured yourself some tea and sat down at one of the stools at the island in the kitchen, sipping contentedly at the hot drink. You didn’t follow him or do more than watch him when he left the room, but he didn’t need someone mothering him or watching his every move. He might’ve gotten that in the Avengers base, however briefly he was there—he wouldn’t get it from you. He’d been watched the better part of his life, assuming you counted the years he’d been in Hydra’s hands as ‘part of his life,’ and you didn’t want to add to that.

Besides, if he wanted company, he’d ask for it. Or just sit down in the same room and say nothing, that was an option too, and it had happened the night before when you settled into the couch with a book. Bucky had slipped out of the guest room (you were close to referring to it as ‘his room’ now) and sank down into one of the two armchairs in the living room, across from you. You’d simply smiled at him, asked if he needed anything, and at a silent negative you’d gone back to reading. He sat in his chair for the better part of an hour, and anytime you glanced up over the edge of your book he looked to be deep in thought. When you went to bed, he’d still been sitting there, and you had no idea when he went to bed.

But it had been nice. Company, without the pressure to talk or keep up social niceties.  _ I guess that’s one upside to living with someone who hasn’t been very aware of society’s norms for the past… seventy years or so? _ you thought, hearing the one-minute warning beep on the oven before the timer would go off. You quickly disabled the timer and turned off the oven, fearing for the wellbeing of your oven should Bucky hear the timer go off and not know what it was.

“Bucky, pizza’s ready,” you called quietly. Your house was usually pretty quiet, so you didn’t doubt he’d hear you. That, and there was no reason to be loud—he could hear you just fine from his room if the door was open. You pulled the pizza stone out and set it on the stove, shedding your oven mitts afterwards and turning to rise up on your toes to get a couple of paper plates from the cabinet. This was when you ran into a slight problem, though. The paper plates weren’t in the cabinet. “Huh.” You turned back to your right to get normal plates, only to all but run into a rather solid, dark-clothed figure.

A surge of panic hit you for a fraction of a second before you realized that whoever it was held a stack of paper plates in their hands, and you looked up to see a face you’d grown to recognize over the past few days. “… Thanks, Bucky,” you told him with a smile, taking two of the plates off the stack and opening the cabinet where they belonged so he could return them. How he’d gotten them without you seeing, you had no idea, but you weren’t complaining. If he wanted to help, you certainly weren’t going to discourage him.

You cut the pizza irregularly, putting half the damn thing on Bucky’s plate and getting a slice for yourself. One thing you remembered when chatting with Steve one time was that Steve’s metabolism was ridiculously fast. If a similar thing had happened with Bucky, which wasn’t impossible to imagine, then he’d have a voracious appetite too, right?

“You want anything to drink?” you asked him, giving him his plate and leaving your own on the counter for a minute to pick a glass from another cabinet. You hadn’t expected an answer, and yet—

“Water.”

“Sure thing,” you said with a smile, even though you were facing away. Lunchtime, and already you’d gotten a few words from him. Three, to be exact, but that was perfectly fine.  _ Progress at its finest. _ You didn’t make a big deal of his choosing to speak. Doing so might make him go quiet again, which you didn’t want at all.

His voice was rough, you decided as you handed him a glass of water. The kind of rough that came from not using one’s voice over a long period of time, not the kind of rough caused by getting sick, or overusing your voice like at a concert. It didn’t sound like a painful range to be in, but more rumbly, like a growly rumbly. You liked hearing it, and resolved to save the sound away in your memory banks the next time you heard it.

Lunch was a quiet affair, which wasn’t that shocking. Meals tended to be that way for you, since you lived alone, but they were no different with Bucky sharing the house. There wasn’t any pressure to speak, and it made a pleasant change—companionship without the need for talking. And maybe it was wishful thinking, but you thought he might have not minded it either.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in two parts, ergo, I'm uploading both as one chapter because they're kind of sequential, plus the first part is too short to be one chapter. Second part is plenty long, though. Just due to writing speed, I won't really upload this quick again, but I got excited this time.

“Mm?”

You glanced up from your book when slight movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention. Bucky walked past the couch where you were laying and settled in the armchair he’d been in the night before, studiously not looking at you.

Being in the presence of other people was a strange thing. Sometimes you wanted everyone’s attention when you walked into a room—but you (and Bucky, it seemed) wanted the exact opposite. That in mind, you did what you’d want someone to do for you and returned your gaze to the pages of the book in your hands. You tried to concentrate on what you were reading, but it was near impossible to ignore the dark blot of man and clothing in an otherwise pale-themed room.

It wasn’t that you feared him, not at all. Maybe ‘wariness’ would be a better term. If any of the hearsay following news reports had any grain of truth, Bucky was dangerous and downright lethal when he chose to be. And whenever that did happen, you didn’t want to be in his way. But while you didn’t  _ fear _ him, he also demanded a good portion of your attention whenever he was in the vicinity. It didn’t feel like a bad thing. You were just  _ aware _ of him and that wasn’t bad.

It was only after scanning the same page three times that you realized you hadn’t read a word of it, and with a rueful smile you slid your bookmark back between the pages and rubbed your eyes.  _ I guess I can try to build some bridges… _

“Hey Bucky… do you like movies?”

A quiet stare answered you. That didn’t seem like a no.

“Would you want to watch if I put one on?”

His lower lip pursed slightly, and you thought quickly.  _ That’s… uncertainty, isn’t it?  _ “… If you don’t like what’s on, we can change it or turn it off?” you coaxed, gesturing to the DVD case beside the TV. “Promise I won’t put some sappy romance on.” The last was added with a playful grin, but unsurprisingly it didn’t elicit the same response from him.

When his eyes relaxed slightly, you took that as nothing more than an ‘okay’ and stood from the couch, stretching. “Okay, let’s see… I get the feeling most action and thrillers are out by a big margin—“  _ Especially considering the guns and explosions nowadays… _ “—And I’m not sure you could  _ pay _ me enough to put on one of those gooey romance movies… I also get the feeling suspense might not go over well,” you added with a slight smile, sitting down in front of the DVD case and opening the door. “Slashers… also probably wouldn’t go over well.”  _ I forget he saw WWII… PTSD is something I think it would be wise to avoid. _ Well, that narrowed down the choices significantly. “Documentar—no. Just no. Abso _ lute _ ly no reality TV in this household—way too much drama,” you rattled off jokingly before pausing to look over at him speculatively. “… Think you’d get any enjoyment out of a comedy?”

The faintest eyebrow quirk had you reaching for one of the older Monty Python DVDs you owned. The older, the better—fewer things would need explained, even if he wanted them to be.

“Oh yeah—Dunno if anyone’s mentioned yet,” you added once you’d removed the DVD from the case, “But a DVD—“ You waved it a bit, causing the mirror side to throw a circle of light all over the ceiling. “—Is like a smaller record with a lot more room for music or films. It’s weird.”

You started it at the player instead of with the remote. You had the feeling too many new things at once would take any enjoyment out of things, and you scooted back to the couch to curl up on one of the end cushions when the movie started. Bucky was watching the screen, but he didn’t seem to be doing so with undivided attention, which honestly didn’t bother you. After so many years watching your back, you didn’t just give the entirety of your concentration to something that wouldn’t keep you alive if your life depended on it. And you couldn’t blame him for that.

It was only a few minutes into the movie that you had a thought. The way your living room was arranged, it made watching the television from one of the armchairs a little uncomfortable. So at the end of the current skit, you addressed your quiet houseguest.

“Hey Bucky?”

His eyes slid over in your direction, and you tapped the cushion on the other end of the couch with your foot.

“Why don’t you come sit over here? You can see better.”

After a long minute with no change in his expression, you just offered him a smile—one that hopefully said, ‘it’s not a problem,’ and returned your attention to the screen. That’s probably why it surprised you a little when he quietly stood from the armchair and shifted over to the couch on the far end, his left arm kept away from the armrest. You smiled again, and looked back to the movie. The comedic Monty Python team certainly helped keep the smile there, but the original cause of it stayed on the other end of the couch.

With some of your friends in high school and college, all the way up through the present day, when on the couch you would stretch your legs out across their laps for comfort. It was tempting, but you didn’t do the same with Bucky. Invasion of privacy and all that? The guy clearly wasn’t okay with being touched. So you kept your feet to yourself.

You giggled from time to time at various things the Monty Python crew said or did—the Fish-Slapping Dance in particular earned a slightly bewildered glance from Bucky… not that you were watching. And if you didn’t know any better, you might have sworn you saw his lips twitch a few times. But when you did look, his face hadn’t changed, and you were forced to conclude it was the quickly shifting lights from the television screen that you’d seen flicker in your peripheral vision.

At one point about halfway through the DVD, you walked over and paused the player between skits and stretched again, arms popping as you extended them as high above your head as you could reach. “I’m gonna get some popcorn or something. You game?” you asked amiably, raising your eyebrows when you saw his gaze switch to you. This time, there was no response from Bucky at all, and you shrugged one shoulder, smiling anyway. “I’ll make a bowl. When I bring it back, if you want some, grab it, alright?”

You headed to the kitchen, pulling a bag of popcorn from one of the cabinets and laying the half-folded bag in the center of the microwave. You hit the start button and immediately stopped, remembering his tendency to react to sudden, loud noises. Like the timer on the stove, for instance. You poked your head into the living room again.

“Bucky? The, uh… the timer on the microwave is going to go off in a minute or so. It’s loud. Just… it’s not a bomb, it’s not a siren, nobody’s breaking in… it’s just a timer and  _ please _ try not to shoot either me or any of my kitchen appliances, please?” you asked with a joking tone, ducking back into the kitchen without waiting for a response—a response you probably wouldn’t receive. And that was okay.

 

* * *

 

Something woke you, causing you to shoot upright in bed with a sharp gasp. Head still muddled with sleep, you didn’t know what exactly it was that had woken you until you heard it again—it was something that sounded akin to a strangled yell.

But what really made your chest clench was the realization that it was from the next room over—your guest room, currently inhabited by one of the world’s most-wanted. It was fear, probably inspired by the thought that they’d found Bucky hiding in your house and had come for him, that they would kill you and take him and you’d have let Steve down. Anyone who cared for Bucky, even Bucky himself—you’d have let them down, as well. It never occurred to you that you were fearing for Bucky’s health and wellbeing, not at that specific moment, and your feet hit the floor with a combat knife in your hand that had been in your dresser drawer for years, just in case. You kept a similar one in your car under your seat, in the event you were in a wreck and needed to cut yourself out of your seatbelt.

You all but threw your own door open and paused at Bucky’s for a heartbeat. If there were killers in there, did you really want to open the door?  _ Yes, because he wouldn’t have yelled if he had it in hand. _ Not that you would be able to offer that much help, but even a little was useful, right? You opened the door quickly, but at the sight of an empty room you halted, confused. The edge of a blanket and jerking feet from behind the other side of the bed immediately caught your attention, and even as you listened you heard heavy panting and a quiet whimper every now and again.

_ … Nightmare, _ you realized, feeling sick to your stomach.

You should wake him. When  _ you _ had a nightmare, all you wanted was to be out of it, whether by being woken up or by something interfering. Usually it was the latter, seeing as you lived alone until Steve had brought Bucky to you.

But Bucky was a soldier. Whatever he’d been through in the war, topped off with whatever had been done to him that made him the supposedly perfect killer… He would respond to being jerked awake as any other assassin might—with a knife, or a gun, or whatever he probably had hidden under his pillow (metaphorically or literally. Probably the latter). And he could easily kill you, even by accident. Shouting to him to try and wake him up would probably result in being shot or something, as shouting might wake him to the thought that he was in a very unpleasant place in his memory, and you knew already how good his aim with throwing knives was. The doorframe to your front door was a testimony to that.

You wanted to wake him, get him out of whatever night terror he was in the center of, keep him from having to suffer through any more of them—but you couldn’t afford to risk it.

So it was with a heavy heart that you pulled his door mostly shut, trying to avoid the  _ click _ of the latch coming even close to rousing him, and sank down against the wall in the hallway right outside. You rested your elbows on your knees, leaving the knife from your nightstand drawer laying beside you, and you buried your face in your hands, trying not to cry.

You must have dozed off at some point, though, because when you next looked up, you could see faint morning light coming through the closed blinds, all the way down the hall in the living room. Your back hurt and you felt stiff, but you didn’t hear anything from Bucky’s room anymore, and the door was as you’d left it so presumably you could hear if he was saying something or still having a nightmare. Quietly, you got to your feet and crept back to your room, sliding your knife back in the night table drawer and getting a change of clothes. You were going to take a long, hot shower—or, actually… maybe not such a long shower, if Bucky was planning to take one. And from what you’d heard last night, he would need the relaxing hot water more than you might.

Okay, so short hot shower—that was the plan. Nodding silently to yourself, you closed yourself in the bathroom as quietly as you could and started the water, setting a towel out for yourself and stripping before stepping into the glass-enclosed shower. You couldn’t help an appreciative sigh as the steaming water hit your back. Briefly, you wished that the water running could be quieter so Bucky could get what sleep he could (especially after last night), but there was nothing to be done about it. You scrubbed almost every inch of your body as quickly as you could and were out of the shower in record time, rubbing a towel over your hair in an attempt to get all the water out.

You dragged a brush through your hair and brushed your teeth, working mostly on autopilot as you did.  _ … I want to ask Steve about his nightmares, _ you decided absently.  _ Not what they’re about—that’s Bucky’s business—but how to help him. _  You had to be able to actually do something to help, not like last night. You didn’t like feeling powerless.  _ I don’t suppose anyone does, really. _

Turning, you dropped your dirty clothes in the hamper that sat quietly in the corner of the bathroom, noting that you probably needed to do laundry today or tomorrow. At least you could still use vacation days, though those were limited. For now you were working from home. You had a few more left, though.

You stepped out of the bathroom and were on your way back to your room to pick up your laptop when you passed Bucky’s room, noticing the door was open. Or at least, more open than you’d left it. Hesitating, you reached out to knock on the door, but stopped yourself.  _ What would you even say? ‘Hey Bucky, I noticed last night you were having a really bad nightmare so I came to help and ended up sitting in the hall all night, are you okay?’ What a dumb excuse. _ You withdrew your hand and continued to your room, pulling your laptop from beneath the corner of your bed and carrying it to the kitchen counter. Chances were you had a shit-ton of emails to sort through, and you’d get breakfast while you did it.

_ Oh right. Breakfast is a good excuse, _ you realized, leaving your computer on the kitchen island and going back to Bucky’s room. You knocked lightly twice.

“Bucky..?”

A quiet grunt answered you, but that wasn’t strictly permission to enter his room and he could likely hear you just fine, so you stayed in the hallway.

“I’m going to make breakfast. Is there anything you want?”

There was no response, and you bit your lip.  _ Guess not. _ “Let me know if you want anything,” you murmured, retreating back to the kitchen while thinking hard over what he might like. … What did  _ Steve _ like to eat for breakfast? He and Bucky had been raised in the same general area, right? Used to be amazing friends, do whatever boys did back then together, saved lives, hunting people, the usual business? So presumably they might have similar taste in breakfasts?  _ Ugh… I wish I could call Steve and ask, _ you lamented, remembering that you would have to wait for  _ him _ to call  _ you _ . He could only get his hands on so many burn phones.

_ … What would he have eaten in the army? _ That was an idea. Maybe a good idea, maybe a bad one, but it was a start. Trying to make something not-horrendous he’d eaten in the army could either be somewhat comforting, or do exactly the opposite and put him in a funk, which seemed as though it could be an understatement. If Bucky got into a funk, not even a building might stand in his way.

A quick web search that literally took less than thirty seconds revealed a meal that was common fare in WWII all the way up to the present.  _ … Shit on a shingle..? That doesn’t sound appetizing… _ But many comments you were seeing declared it to be delicious.  _ … I can always try… _ You hadn’t gone to culinary school, for sure, but you weren’t a bad cook either. “Right. Creamed, chipped beef over toast,” you muttered to yourself, reading the instructions off the website. It couldn’t be that hard.

Just… what was chipped beef?

* * *

 

A few minutes later you were swearing heartily at a fiercely bubbling white sauce in the pan, and working fast to keep up with how quickly things were cooking. You hadn’t burned anything yet, at least.

“Fuck, shit, fuck fuck fuck shit fuck,” you rattled off distractedly, but at least your endeavor was almost over. “Hurry  _ up, _ Monsieur  _ fucking _ Toaster you assbag—ah!” You snatched the toast out of the toaster and dropped it on the plate, nearly burning your fingers, and quickly spooned the ‘creamed chipped beef’ mix onto it, moving the saucepan safely off the burner so it wouldn’t burn while you were gone.  _ Two pieces. Hope he likes this. _ If he didn’t, you could afford to not make it again, that was all fine. If he ate it… he’d have at least eaten that morning instead of going without.

You carefully made your way down the hall with the plate, quite proud of yourself, but the pride gave way to worry the closer you got to his door. It was still partly open. “Bucky?” You tapped on the door twice with the back of your knuckles anyway. “I brought you breakfast, if you want it. If you don’t, it’s completely fine, you don’t  _ have _ to eat it, but… It’s here if you want it. Do you want me to bring it in?”

Silence.

A little concerned, you carefully poked your head in the door only to see your guest pulling a long-sleeved shirt down from where it was bunched up at his chest.  _ Oh. He was changing. Oops. _ “Here,” you said quietly, holding out the plate to him. Bucky took it with his right hand, left casually disappearing into his pocket. It was completely at odds with his stance, which was balanced and not casual at all. You chalked it up to him just being weird. Or… you know, as casual as one can feel after a nightmare.

His eyebrows shifted upwards minutely when he saw what exactly was on the plate, and his eyes flicked back up to you as though searching for an explanation. You rubbed the back of your neck, a bit uncomfortable, but ultimately faced him.  _ You’re not a high school girl who blushes at every boy she meets. _ “I thought you’d like something more familiar, or a bit closer to home,” you explained quietly, biting at the inside of your cheek. Was it a mistake?

“… SOS?”

You frowned slightly and tilted your head just a little in confusion, completely bypassing the fact he’d just spoken again in case he clammed up. “SOS..? What does a distress call have to do with this..?”

“Shit on a shingle,” he clarified, nodding at the plate. Your expression brightened when you caught on. Oddly enough, it didn’t bother you that one of the first things you’d heard out of him today was a swear. Hey, you weren’t too much better.

“Yeah. I found a list of instructions and… well. I think I already said,” you admitted with a small grin. “Something a little familiar.”

“… Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” you responded, meaning it. With most other people, you’d probably respond something like, ‘not a problem,’ or ‘it’s alright.’ But in this instance, despite the frustration it had caused you, it truly  _ was _ your pleasure to make this for him. “Now seriously, eat that before the toast gets soggy or something—I bet it’s not nearly as good then,” you teased gently, turning and slipping out of the room to make for the kitchen again. If he wanted you to stay there with him, he’d say so—and you valued your own privacy enough that you tried not to intrude on others’. And especially not Bucky’s, above all.

You put another slice of bread into the toaster when you got back to the kitchen, laying the saucepan back over the burner on the stove.  _ I can’t say it sounds appetizing… but I made it, so I might as well try it, right? And Bucky liked it, so it must not taste  _ that _ bad. _ Then again, you had no idea if Bucky had weird tastes, like a peanut-butter-and-avocado sandwich or pickles and ice cream in a bowl. Steve hadn’t warned you about Bucky’s tastes, or what he liked.

But then, Steve hadn’t really warned you about much of anything when he dropped Bucky off at your door, other than ‘keep him inside,’ ‘keep the blinds shut if you can,’ and ‘be careful.’ You’d figured out plenty on your own, sure, but maybe some vital information would have been appreciated. Like the nightmares. Or the knives.

“How did you find a recipe for this..?”

It was only through sheer willpower that you kept yourself from whipping around in alarm when you heard a quiet voice behind you. It was gravelly, and one you recognized even though you could probably count the number of times you’d heard it on one hand. It wasn’t quite the scratchy sort of rough—more the roll of gravel across velvet than anything. It was nice to listen to, and a shame you didn’t hear it more often than you did.

You smiled at Bucky, noting with delight that one of the pieces of… what had he called it? SOS? Was already gone. “I looked it up,” you replied, reaching over to grab your toast that had just popped up and tipping the saucepan’s remaining contents onto it.

“Where?”

Oh, so your guest soldier had a sense of true curiosity. Your smile turned into a grin, and you tapped the side of your nose. “A girl has her ways,” you said simply, taking a bite of your breakfast before giving it a bewildered glance.  _ … I didn’t expect it to actually taste good. Huh. That’s cool. _

“You look surprised,” Bucky commented quietly, leaning against the island and biting into his second piece of his breakfast that he held with his right hand while his left supported the plate.

“I am,” you admitted. “It’s called ‘shit on a shingle,’ and I can’t say I was expecting something that  _ doesn’t _ taste like shit. I mean, I know the US army feeds their troops reasonably well and all, but something that’s named after excrement..? You’ve gotta see how I was a little suspicious, right?” you teased gently.

You were a little surprised to hear a low-pitched chuckle come from the soldier. “I didn’t know you  _ could _ laugh,” you joked, only wondering once the words were out of your mouth if it was too early to rib him about that, but even though Bucky’s mouth didn’t move much, his eyes were still turned up at the corners.  _ Okay. So I didn’t mess up. Thank god… _  “Do you want any more?” you asked him, gesturing with your piece of toast at his now-empty plate.  _ The man can put away food as fast as Steve. _

He seemed to weigh his options, glancing once between his plate and the stove. You bit the inside of your lips to keep from laughing as you recognized the internal debate. “Here, leave your plate—I’ll make some more,” you told him, holding out your hand for the dish. He carefully handed it to you, and the tip of your fingers brushed his hand as you took it. His fingers were a bit cold, but you didn’t think anything of it. Some peoples’ temperatures just ran lower than others, and hadn’t newspaper headlines called him ‘the Winter Soldier’ at some point? Maybe that had something to do with it. Eyes on the saucepan and ingredients, you didn’t notice the deer-in-the-headlights expression that flashed across his face for a heartbeat.

“You know, I didn’t think—… Bucky?” You broke off halfway through your sentence when you noticed that the dark-haired soldier was gone. “… Okay then,” you murmured to yourself, going back to the task you’d set yourself. Or that he set. Whichever it was. Whatever. You were doing this willingly, happily even. And he’d just done a lot of talking (for him, at least), so maybe it was time for him to retreat again. After so long probably working on his own, maybe he wasn’t used to talking much just yet. Introverts were funny like that—you would know.

Briefly, you debated between calling to him when his food was ready or bringing it to him, as you had before. You liked the idea of bringing it to him, for one reason mainly. You weren’t going to lie to yourself—Bucky was an attractive man. But on the other hand, you wanted to call for him so that you wouldn’t invade his privacy,  _ and _ his presence would be voluntary.

“That gonna be done soon?”

Your head snapped around to see a frame you knew leaning against the island. He now wore gloves.  _ His hands probably WERE cold, _ you realized, satisfied with your conclusion. “Yeah, just a minute or three,” you told him with a smile, stirring the contents of the saucepan. “Stick a couple pieces of bread in the toaster?”

Without another word, he moved to do ask you asked, cautiously pressing down the lever. You fought a grin with little success, remembering that toasters probably looked very different in the early 1940’s. Or semi-different. When had the pop-up toaster been invented, anyway? You debated asking if he knew, but… that was a little too much like mindless small talk for your taste, and you wouldn’t ask that of him. Besides, he’d sat in silence before with you and there were no issues, so he clearly didn’t mind quiet.

That in mind, you chose not to speak while you fixed his second helping of breakfast. You couldn’t help being not-so-secretly pleased he liked it, and you were quite proud that you’d found what was apparently a good recipe.  _ Maybe I should make it more often. _

Unless he wasn’t staying here for long. That thought made your smile dim a notch, but it was back after a moment. Bucky was here now—you had quiet company who was perfectly civil, and who you couldn’t have minded being in your house less.  _ I’ll just enjoy the company while he’s here, _ you decided, taking the plate with the pieces of toast when they were offered.

“Okay… two more shingles, complete with shit, and all yours,” you joked, holding up the plate.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” you said with a bright smile. Actually, you’d smiled more this morning than you had in the last two days combined. Weird.

Much to your surprise, Bucky ate at the counter while you cleaned up the dishes. This once again set you to smiling, but you said nothing about it. It was a lot like that whole theory about making noise when you were trying to get a deer to come to you—you didn’t.

“I’ve got a conference call I need to chime in on today,” you mentioned to him, eyes on your work. “It will take… probably close to two hours, at best guess? It’s basically my having a phone conversation through my computer. So you’re going to hear voices from the kitchen for about that long, all of it work stuff you probably aren’t going to care about and I don’t expect you to listen to.”

You didn’t expect an answer; you didn’t receive one. Bucky wasn’t an idiot, and you wouldn’t treat him as one, but you were explaining things as concisely as you could (while trying to guess how much exposure he’d had to modern electronics). It was a bit tricky, given that you knew next to nothing about his past. And honestly, you wouldn’t press to know. There were facts from your own life that you’d much prefer to keep hidden, just like everybody else. So you weren’t going to pry unless it was absolutely necessary.

Abruptly, you were jolted out of your thoughts by a knock at the door. It was a short knock and straight to the point, four brief and loud taps, and immediately it put you on your guard. It wasn’t hesitant, it wasn’t nice and it wasn’t cute. Whoever knocked meant business.  _ So, not girl scouts or boy scouts. _ The chilling thought briefly ran through your head that whoever was looking for Bucky, they’d found him and wanted to trick you into opening the door so they could bust in or something, but you mentally scolded yourself.  _ Don’t be stupid. Think of what you said to him the other day—if they WERE coming for him they wouldn’t use the front door. _

Drying off your hands on a dish towel, you made your way over to the door, frowning. You paused before you reached for the doorhandle, motioning to Bucky to go down the hallway that led to the bedrooms, and he needed no more prompting. He silently disappeared around the corner, and you noted that you were a little disconcerted by the way his face had changed. It wasn’t mild, easy, teasing, or even curious—it was cold, mindless, and flat, and it was most definitely not a face you wanted to see chasing you.

Right. Door. Whoever had knocked was still there.

You quietly stepped up to the door to look through the peephole, staying on the balls of your feet to minimize any vibrations your steps would make. If it was someone you didn’t want to talk to, you weren’t going to alert them to the fact you were home. All you could see was the top brim of a dark baseball cap and broad shoulders covered by an equally dark leather jacket, and maybe it was wishful thinking, but… you thought the mouth and chin you could see looked familiar.

Leaving the door chain latched (as if it would do any good, but it was a statement), you unlocked the door and cracked it open to see. The man looked up and you immediately fumbled with the chain on the door, letting Steve and someone who was with him in before closing it again, flipping the lock. If it was Steve, you could probably trust whoever was with him, despite the fact you didn’t recognize him. He had a similar build, though, and by his stance, army wouldn’t be a horrible guess. Both were dressed in street clothes, and the guy you didn’t know had a backpack. They were probably aiming to fly under the radar because if you passed them, you wouldn’t have looked twice.

Steve looked up and you raised an eyebrow, glancing at the stranger. “As much as I do love to see you on short notice, Steve, I would hope manners haven’t been forgotten just yet,” you drawled, though your heart wasn’t really in it. The look on both their faces was dead serious.

“Where’s Buck?” Steve asked immediately, and you pointed back to the hallway.

“Call out or something first—don’t scare him? I don’t want a knife or a bullet in that pretty face of yours,” you said as he strode by, making a beeline for the guest room door. You turned back to the stranger. “And you are…?"

“Call me Sam,” he introduced, holding out a hand. You shook it automatically, studying his face.

“… You’re a soldier?” you guessed, raising your eyebrows, and he confirmed your theory with a nod. “You aren’t one of the freaky ones, are you?”

He chuckled, and to you the noise sounded just a little bit strained. “No ma’am. Born in 1978.”

You fell silent for a minute, glancing between the open guest bedroom door (from which you could hear a quiet, fast-paced conversation at the level of a murmur) and ‘Sam.’ It was a no-brainer to realize something had happened with them while Bucky had been hunkering down at your place, but now the question was, how was it going to affect you and your (probably nonexistent) ability to keep Bucky safe, as best you could? Steve had trusted you with him. You weren’t going to just abandon ship now.

Prying went against your normal tendencies. You really didn’t want to ask what had happened, because obviously something  _ had _ . But… if it had the potential to harm you or the one person Steve had trusted you with, you needed to know. And Sam didn’t look ready to start a running conversation anytime soon.

“… What happened?” you finally questioned, eyebrows pulling together.

You weren’t surprised when Sam hesitated, glancing up over your shoulder at Steve and Bucky who had emerged from your guest room, both with a stride that all but screamed ‘business.’

“We need to move him,” Steve said in a clipped tone. It only registered to you now that he was holding a small duffel bag that was normally stored in the corner of the closet in the guest room. He tossed it to you now. “Come on.”

“Wait—‘we’ as in, you and your friend here, or ‘we’ as in ‘I’m now part of this whether I like it or not?’ “ you demanded, brandishing the empty duffel.

“You’re involved,” he replied shortly. You noticed the outside corners of his eyes dipped down before he said, “I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be.”

It was sincere, and what were you supposed to say to that? ‘Fuck you and get out of my house?’ No chance.  _ You knew this was a risk when you agreed to this. You’re now dealing with the consequences. _ And now you had to pack a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and run.  _ … It could be worse, _ you reasoned.  _ I could be on the run with frat boys who don’t know what the hell they’re doing. _ No, all three (or at least two, and probably Sam) were seasoned fighters and could play either by the rules or by chaos. Trusting them was your best option for staying safe.

Sure, you could fight and defend yourself reasonably well. If someone grabbed you on the street, you had a good damn chance of at least escaping their hold, if not doing some actual damage. But the people the boys were running from likely had guns and technology that was far from being available to the public, and you didn’t have a chance by yourself. If you stayed and they left, whoever was after them would come after you and then… who knew what might happen?

“… Fine,” you said grumpily, hurrying into your bedroom and grabbing a pair of jeans, underwear, and two shirts to cram into your bag, donning a jacket before returning to them. You snatched your toothbrush out of the bathroom on your way by. “… Just… please tell me they’re not going to destroy all the possessions I hold dear,” you muttered, debating for a moment before laying your phone—now powered off—on the countertop. If you didn’t leave it then they’d probably toss it out the window of a speeding car later anyway.

None of them said anything in response, which did absolute  _ wonders _ for your nerves. Those photos of you with your parents, the first-edition book from 1947 that you’d been given for your birthday however many years ago, any records you had, souvenirs from places you’d visited, diplomas… they couldn’t confirm any of them would be safe.  _ I guess as of now, it hardly matters… _ You weren’t exactly the most sentimental person, anyway.

Or at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself. You weren’t sure if it worked.

“Right… Stove’s off, I’m going to miss my conference call, phone’s staying here, and I don’t think I’m forgetting anything,” you murmured. You were about to reach for the door, but Steve stopped you with a hand on your arm and shook his head once.

“Back door,” he explained.

You nodded, feeling a bit subdued. The disbelief and frustration would probably kick in tomorrow, or maybe tonight, but for now you were just resigned. Resigned, and hopeful that your house wasn’t going to get destroyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, because I've had a bit of free time on my hands, I bequeath to you all Chapter 3. I'm not uploading chapters until I finish one a few chapters ahead, so if I fall short I have something to upload. Or that's the plan, anyway.   
> As per usual, please let me know what you think, I love hearing compliments and constructive criticism. The chapters that are posted are extensively proofread by myself and another party, and we do our best to catch errors or just things that don't quite sound right, so everything flows a little better! Enjoy!

_ Takeout again? Really? Fourth day in a row… _

You hid your distaste, murmuring a thanks when Sam passed you a white folded box, indicative of the Chinese place that was probably somewhere near. You hadn’t really gone out to explore, so you didn’t know where the hell the place was. Not like you cared, either.

Well, maybe a little. And maybe you were a little miffed about being kept in here.

You, Bucky, Sam, and Steve had been holed up in this… hm. You  _ thought _ it was a sort of smaller warehouse, but the boys really hadn’t encouraged looking around. At all. Steve and Sam went out periodically, sometimes bringing files back with them and planning something or other with Bucky. Sometimes Bucky went out by himself or with Steve—usually the latter.

Steve went out the most often, usually in street clothes and always with a ball cap. One time, he had come back with his shield scratched up and covered in bruises and scrapes. But his shield had been literally  _ scratched,  _ by what seemed to be nails if you didn’t know better judging by the pattern _. _ Or rather, the  _ paint  _ had been scratched off, but you wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the actual metal had marks in it as well. Despite the burning desire to know what the hell had happened, you’d stayed quiet and tried to help patch him up, cleaning cuts and chucking a bottle of painkillers at his head when he wouldn’t let you stitch one of the nastier ones up. Sam had laughed, and you’d chosen to ignore him seeing as there was nothing else within range to throw at him that wasn’t a knife.

Bucky barely talked, and that neither surprised nor concerned you. He didn’t seem as quietly curious as he had been at your house, but that was only to be expected. You’d been dragged along with the three into hiding, trying to avoid the probably lethal forces that were hunting for him. Somehow, you doubted you’d be completely at ease either in his position.

You didn’t know where they’d driven you, not strictly. All you knew was that you’d been headed in a mostly southward direction and things were a lot warmer here than they were back home. Bucky still wore gloves and long sleeves, which puzzled you. You’d concluded that he probably had some nasty scars, because there was no way in  _ hell _ he was cold in this climate (not that he should’ve been back home).

Often, you were bored off your rocker and remained so until Bucky returned with Steve, pulling a Rubik’s Cube out of his jacket pocket and thrusting it out under your nose. It was unexpected, but you appreciated it and told him so. It had already been scrambled, and the last couple of days had been spent with you trying to figure it out, swearing at it, throwing it across the room, stewing for a while, and then retrieving it only to repeat the cycle. By the fourth time this happened, Sam had commented that you probably needed a new collection of swear words, because there were only so many ways you could combine the six you normally used.

You’d responded with a few you  _ didn’t _ normally use and that you wouldn’t pick up anywhere but the bad side of Philadelphia.

Now, you were picking at the lo mein that you’d been handed, torn between being ravenous and being willing to chew off your own arm rather than eat Chinese takeout again. There wasn’t exactly a refrigerator and microwave here, so you couldn’t save it for later. And besides, what you didn’t eat, the boys probably would. They were like living garbage disposals. Sam, to his credit, ate as much as you’d expect a grown man with a healthy metabolism to, but Steve and Bucky… you were just surprised they didn’t lick the cartons clean when they finished.

Glancing up at them, you noticed something you hadn’t when Bucky had been staying with you.  _ … He eats with his fork wrong… _ The handle of the fork was in a fist, instead of balancing on another finger—similar to how one would hold a pencil. His arm almost curved around above his food, and you realized you’d seen similar habits in people who had been in prison or other places where you might have to defend your food, and wondered briefly why you hadn’t noticed before.  _ Probably because most of the food was able to be eaten with hands—pizza, sandwiches, wings, burgers, popcorn, shit on a shingle… _ A smile pulled at your lips at the last one, and you returned your eyes to your food, seriously debating on really just waiting to eat until morning.

It wouldn’t kill you, definitely. But if you woke up to a stomach that sounded like a dying whale, you’d be crabby until you got food again, and you didn’t exactly want to inflict that on any of them. You were low-maintenance, or you tried to be, and you weren’t going to cause any more trouble than you could avoid.

Bottom line: you had to eat the food. If it really classified as ‘food,’ anyway, especially by this point.

Twirling some noodles around your fork, you took the first bite, and bit by bit your meal disappeared as you ate without tasting it. It was probably for the best—if you actually  _ could  _ taste it, your stomach might reject it. All greasy, quickly-prepared food that was probably made from alley cats, to reference an old joke? No thanks.

“I’ll take first watch.”

Your eyes flicked to Steve as he stood from the old chair (that really didn’t look as though it should have been able to hold him), and Bucky gave a short nod. Sam briefly opened his mouth, as though to argue a point, but then appeared to think better of it and also nodded. And you thought you knew what Sam was concerned about.

Between the four of you so far, Steve had been the one running on next to no sleep for a full week, and it was beginning to show. The dark circles under his eyes were almost as bad as Bucky’s—though you were willing to bet Bucky hadn’t slept too much more than the Captain. Nearly every night this week you’d drifted towards awareness to similar sounds as you’d heard back in your house, when Bucky had that nightmare. Undoubtedly he’d had many since, and sometimes you heard them. At a couple of points, at some state of awareness, you’d seen Steve go over and gently shake Bucky’s shoulders. As expected, his hands had shot out towards the other man (likely with intent to kill), but Steve had caught him each time. Briefly, you wished you were physically capable of doing the same. If you could get him out of some of those night terrors… maybe then Bucky’s nightmares might not be so bad.

It was none of your business, though, and you returned your eyes to the now-empty food carton in your hands. This sucked, badly, but… it could be worse. That’s what you’d been telling yourself so far, and it had become your internal mantra—‘Don’t complain, it could be worse, and they’ve probably got the shorter end of the stick.’ After all, you didn’t have a ‘shoot on sight’ sign hanging on your back. 

As much as it did nothing to help your current situation, you couldn’t help sighing, wishing that you could go home (not for the first time) and back to where things were familiar. Where you were actually permitted to go outside, ridiculous as that might have sounded-- it wasn’t like you actually went outside on a regular basis in any case. But it was nice to know you could if you wanted to. 

Briefly, you wondered if this was what it was like for Steve, being in the Avengers tower and waiting for some call to come in for something or other requiring him to help save the world. If it was, you had to sympathize, seeing as there was little else you could do in this warehouse anyway. 

Since it was already past dark, you decided that just rolling up into your sleeping bag was the best option, choosing to wait for morning. At least a few hours of unconsciousness might help to pass the time, if only a little. 

It felt like it had only been a few minutes, but the slight stiffness in your limbs told you how long you’d been laying there, sleeping harder than you’d planned on. A quiet shuffle from off to your side had you looking over, without moving your head, and a not-unfamiliar sight met your eyes. Bucky was on top of his sleeping bag and fighting mutely against Steve, who was kneeling next to him and trying to hold his arms down.  _ Nightmares. _ In about as long as it took for this to register, Bucky had actually woken up and was settling down, giving Steve a small push so he rocked back on his heels. 

A couple of very quiet words were exchanged between them, and for the sake of privacy (a rule you’d been raised with) you looked away, only to meet Sam’s eyes. He was wide awake and staring straight ahead, not paying any mind to the scene across the would-be circle. But you knew expressions enough to tell that the slight wrinkle between his eyebrows wasn’t always there. 

His gaze flicked up to meet yours--  _ whoops, caught _ \-- and you intentionally glanced in the direction of Steve and Bucky (still quietly murmuring to each other) before looking back to Sam. Sam blinked once, deliberately. He knew exactly what was happening, and why, and he was letting Steve handle it because he’d likely get killed trying to do the same thing. 

Just like you. 

Your heart gave a small pang as you glanced one last time over to where Steve and Bucky were before closing your eyes and trying to get a little more rest. You could barely hear Steve returning to his sleeping bag and Bucky probably rolling over in his, and you tucked your chin a little further under the flap and closed your eyes a little tighter. 

You weren’t sure how yet, but you wanted to help Bucky. You weren’t entirely sure you  _ could _ , but you had to try. Tonight was just… not that night. And by the looks of things, tomorrow wouldn’t be either, unfortunately.

* * *

 

“C’mon Sam, please?” 

“... You know what, fine. But just remember, you asked for it,” he told you, crossing his arms. You bounced on your toes in excitement. “Drop and give me twenty.” 

“Twenty? Wait, I thought--” 

“Now,” he interrupted impatiently, so without another word you dropped to your hands and toes and started doing push-ups. Maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to ask Sam to help you with finding exercises to pass the time-- after all, he said he used to run several miles every morning (though Steve was always just a little bit faster) and he was used to this kind of workout. Twenty push-ups for you was more than a couple. For Sam, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. For Steve and Bucky, it would be a piece of cake. And you were sick of sitting around and doing nothing. 

“Twenty,” you muttered, dropping to your stomach after the last one. “What’s next?” 

“Give me twenty more.” 

“What??” you asked in surprise, looking up at him. “But I just did--” 

“I said give me twenty!” he snapped, and you pushed yourself back up onto your hands and toes to continue. By halfway through this set, your arms and the muscles under your collarbone were burning, and you were slowing down. A lot. “Speed up!” 

“I’m not a soldier, I’m a weakling and I can only do so many at one time!” you retorted, not stopping. 

Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Damn straight you’re a weakling. I’ve known eight-year-olds who could do more than you!” 

“Doubtless those eight-year-olds were in phys. ed  classes,” you grumbled. “I work for a living! I don’t exercise!”

“That’s pretty obvious.” 

“Don’t talk back to me!” You reached twenty again and sat back, glaring up at him. “There. Now what?” 

“Now give me twenty more,” Sam said without missing a beat. 

“No! I just did forty, total, let’s do something else! I’ll do twenty more later,” you tried to compromise, but Sam was already shaking his head. 

“Twenty now or nothing, take your pick.” 

“Rude,” you huffed, and it was with some measure of reluctance that you returned to your former position to start doing push-ups again, much slower than you’d been doing them previously. “I was expecting we’d do… I dunno, arms, then core, then legs, and kind of just rotating between them.” 

“Think about it this way,” he told you, sinking down onto his heels, “After this set you’ll have done sixty push-ups. Want bragging rights? You keep going.” 

“Only if we can work something else after this,” you mumbled, collapsing with your arms under you when you reached twenty this time. “Ugh… my arms aren’t working,” you said pitifully, sitting up to flop them in Sam’s direction. 

“Get up. We’re going to run around the warehouse,” he said cheerfully. “If you can lap me twice, we can take a break.” 

Only twice? That sounded simple enough. But when you remembered that you’d often finished last in gym class runs in middle school, your heart sank. Longer legs or no, how were you going to catch someone who (until a week ago) went on daily runs of more than two miles? Sprinting looked like your best option, but if you ran out of energy one lap in, that was it.

Sam saw your face fall, and laughed, shooting you a wicked grin. “Up and at ‘em. Let’s go for a nice afternoon jog!” 

“The warehouse is only about sixty feet across,” you balked. “What are we going to do, run back and forth??”

“If necessary, yes. Come on, prove to me you’re not some delicate shrinking violet,” he taunted, and you rose to your feet with a quiet groan. 

“I’m really going to regret this, aren’t I?”

“I told you, you asked for it.”

An hour and a half later, you were laying spread eagle on the concrete floor of the warehouse, still panting. The cold felt good on your back, as you’d sweated through your shirt (no surprise there), and Sam jogged over to peer down at you. “Steve and his buddy are back with food.” 

“Chinese again?” you asked in a mutter, but made no move to rise. “If it is, I’ll stay here, thanks.”

“Psychic. Come on-- there’s good news.” 

“Make me.” 

“... Nah. You’re gross and sweaty. I’m not touching that.” 

“Wuss,” you said dryly, and mentally tried to encourage yourself to actually get up when you heard him walk away. 

_ Quit pussyfooting around it, you’ve got to get up at some point. Your muscles are just tired, it’s not a debilitating injury. All three of them have had worse, so get over it. You’re supposed to be low-maintenance, remember? It’s not as if one of them is going to come feed you. _

While you were silently ranting, quiet bootsteps approached and you didn’t notice until a face framed with dark hair leaned into view. You raised an eyebrow at Bucky. The corners of his mouth were no different, but his eyes turned up at the corners. 

“... Quit laughing at me,” you groused. 

“... I’m not laughing,” he said after a moment, and you stuck your tongue out at him. 

“Yes you are. I can tell. It’s just… mental.”

He didn’t respond, and his version of a smile didn’t fade. You huffed. Just because you were holed up in this warehouse with the other three didn’t mean that you had to complain about it the whole time, hence your teasing on all sides. “Don’t just stand there. Either feed me or drag me back over to where the food is.” 

In answer, he sank back on his heels and dangled a closed Chinese takeout box over your nose. A fork was slid under one of the flaps. The smell drifted down to you, and you scowled at him. “... You’re not playing fair.” 

“No, I’m not,” he agreed quietly, swinging the box back and forth. 

You groaned, managing to get your elbows under you and pushing yourself up into a sitting position before gingerly taking the box. “I regret every movement I’ve ever made right now. … Thank you, though,” you added, a little softer. 

“... Sure.” It took him a moment to answer, but you didn’t respond. Chances were, outside of interactions with you, not many people took the time to thank him for anything. Bucky was-- there was really no other way to say it-- really dark and intimidating on the whole, and people he would meet would want to limit interactions with him because he was scary. And that was just human nature. 

You offered him a smile a moment before getting your feet back under you (the smile was replaced with a grimace). “What’s it today?” 

“I… I think I heard ‘sesame chicken’ mentioned?” he replied hesitantly, and you hid a smile. 

“You probably heard right,” you told him, in the middle of taking a step when your smile fell. “Oh, I regret everything.” 

A low-pitched rumble that might have been a chuckle reached your ears. “You’ll feel worse in the morning. Trust me.” 

And you did. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, yeah, remember that tag I have up there when I say things explode in more ways than one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to hold out on an update for another week or so until I'm back in my home country, but I finished a chapter this afternoon and got too excited, so here, have an update!

_ ‘Stay silent. Stay still, even if you think they see you. Wait for us, one of us will come get you.’ _

Steve’s words echoed back through your mind as heavy black boots traversed the room almost silently. A rude wakeup call in the middle of the night had led to a truly wild car chase (most of which had you pressed against your seat amidst all the shattered glass), which led to a swift relocation, and an ambush being set up. In theory, Bucky was hiding somewhere else in this huge waterfront storehouse, but you didn’t know where. Also in theory, Steve and Sam were lying in wait to ambush… whoever it was that was after you all now.

You hadn’t asked for any of this. Hell, you didn’t want any of it either. But you were in deep now whether you liked it or not. 

… Then again, you’d known the risks. So wallowing in self-pity wasn’t an option now. 

You shrunk a little further into the pile of old rags you were hiding in at the back of a tiny janitor’s closet, next to a bucket about the size of you when you were curled up. There wasn’t a lot of fabric, but hopefully it would hide you from the odd glance. It was stressful as hell, waiting for the men with masks and guns to go by after scouring the room (and praying to whatever deities existed that they wouldn’t see anything out of the ordinary). 

_ ‘Part of what will get you seen is movement. Moving gets you killed. Keep. Still.’ _

You also happened to be praying that Bucky was right, and that these people really  _ were _ that predictable. Then again… they were chasing one (maybe two?) supersoldiers and a traitor, plus their little mascot-- that is, you. They had to be well-prepared for anything. 

“Clear.” 

A few heart-pounding moments later, they’d left the room, moving onto the next one in search of absolutely anything resembling human. You waited a few more minutes anyway on Steve’s orders. 

_ ‘There’s a chance there will be a sweeper a minute after everyone’s gone through. They’ll poke their heads into rooms that have already been cleared in the off chance someone missed something. When you think they’re gone, you’ll come out, and  _ they will catch you _. Stay put. I promise, one of us will come and get you.’ _

You waited, and the world around you seemed to hold its breath. 

The faintest shuffle reached your ears, and seconds later a figure dressed identically to the armed men before walked by, checking several of the places his compatriots had already looked. 

He left with no incident, and since the door to your closet was wide open, it would make sense he wouldn’t check there again. Of course, it also meant that the door was _wide_ _open_ and that absolutely _any_ movement you made would be seen if someone happened to be in the right line of sight. You decided to stay right where you were. After all, Steve had hammered it into your brain to wait. _One of them will come._ None of them had given you any reason to doubt them so far-- why would they now, when it was far more dire than just achey muscles? 

As fine-tuned as your hearing was right now, the quietest of scuffles sounded like someone body-slamming the wall. A second later, someone opened the closet door a little further, carrying a second someone by the back of their body armor, only to drop them and crouch down upon seeing you. You sat up and onto your heels, shooting Bucky a wobbly, nervous grin that happened to be the best you could do at the moment.  _ Where are the others? Is everything okay? Are you hurt? What’s next? _

Experimentally, you opened your mouth a fraction and raised your eyebrows, and Bucky quickly shook his head.  _ No talking yet. Okay. I can do that. _ You closed your mouth. Silently, he waved towards himself with a gloved hand, and you took that as the motion to follow him. 

You would never be as downright silent as Bucky was, no matter what training you could find, but you fancied that you were rather quiet as he led you through two narrow halls and to a broad set of double sliding doors that you remembered opened into the main area on the ground floor of the warehouse. He flattened himself against the wall, and you mimicked him, watching him intently peer around the very edge of the corner. Almost immediately, he jerked back as a handful of bullets came rocketing through the corner of the wall, burying themselves in the wall opposite. 

Even if you’d had a chance to, you never would have been able to duck in time, so maybe it was for the best that you felt a hand with an iron grip clamp down on the back of your neck and press you all the way down to the floor. At what seemed like the same instant, the wall where Bucky had been a moment before almost exploded in a shower of bullets. Where you’d been hovering seemed to disintegrate a heartbeat later. You squeezed your eyes shut with your arms over your head, trying to flatten yourself against the concrete floor. The hand you assumed was Bucky’s stayed on the back of your neck, but you hardly noticed. Splintered wood and bits of tin rained down for a few moments. 

In the partial second between bursts, you heard Bucky firing back. The gunfire a few feet from your ears set them to ringing, but there wasn’t much you could do, and you’d take it to the alternative. One by one (and at a very quick rate), the other gunmen went silent, and the same steely grip from before pulled you up. Bucky held you at arm’s length for a second, ensuring there were no life-threatening bullet holes in you before seizing your wrist in his left hand and pulling you along behind him. His eyes seemed to be everywhere at once, and even though his grip was hurting your wrist, you dared not complain. As before, it was better than the alternative. 

“Buck?” 

Your head snapped up when you heard Steve, as did Bucky’s. Sam’s… wait, when did he get wings? Steve’s eyes scanned you just like Bucky’s had, and then his attention went back to the dark-haired man. You took advantage of the break in attention to you to address Sam. 

“Childhood dreams of flying?” you guessed weakly, and you received a half-smile in response. 

“Something like that.” 

“Come on,” Bucky interrupted, roughly pulling you towards the smaller of the exits in the warehouse. You couldn’t help wincing. Steve caught this. 

“Buck,” he interjected, “Ease up.” 

Almost like he’d been burned, Bucky snatched his gloved hand back from your arm. You didn’t slow your pace any, keeping up with their running as best you could on your way out of the warehouse, but your wrist was alarmingly red.  _ He’s got a hell of a grip… _ you realized uncomfortably. You couldn’t spend much time on it, though, as there was currently only a small ledge between your small group and the ten foot drop to the water on your right. 

That was about when half of your world exploded. 

What felt like a huge, burning hot fist propelled you sideways, causing you to hit your ribs on the concrete ledge and tipping you over the side, scraping the side of your body as you fell. You reached out automatically for something,  _ anything _ that would keep you from falling, and the edge of the concrete walkway was what met your fingertips. You clung to it with both hands, trying to put your scrambled head in order for a heartbeat before someone’s head and shoulders emerged over the edge, and someone’s arm reached down for you. In the haze of smoke above you, you could identify Bucky. 

His mouth moved, but you couldn’t hear him. It was only now you realized your ears were ringing horribly. With a bit of effort, your eyes focused on the hand he reached down to you. It was glinting. He wasn’t holding anything, but at the moment you couldn’t dredge up a will to care, and you reached up with your arm to seize his. Your left arm and leg felt kind of numb, but you’d worry about it later. 

He gripped you hard by the shoulders and his mouth moved some more, but you shook your head-- you still couldn’t hear him. His mouth moved once more (it probably translated into some four-letter word) and he grabbed your right arm, pulling you with him as fast as you could move. Given how disoriented you currently were, that wasn’t as fast as previously, but your options were to either go fast or be dragged. You realized that being dragged wasn’t high on your list of priorities at the moment, so somehow you kept up with Bucky and someone else running in front of him, despite the fact your left leg felt… kind of funny, actually. Not the good kind of funny. It wasn’t giving you the kind of push you normally relied on it for when running or jogging (and there had been a lot of running involved lately, so you would know). Your chest ached, but for now you were going to chalk that up to the fast and frequent running in not-quite-warm air and not think about it too hard so you could catalogue the rest of your injuries. 

When sliding around a corner, you risked a brief glance down and almost tripped for your efforts. The entire left side of your leg was red, irritated, and looked burned. The fabric of your pant leg had also been singed away. You clamped your jaw shut against a wave of nausea and kept running. Whenever you came close to falling behind, Bucky gave your arm another tug and you were up to speed again, but there had to be a limited number of times this method could actually work. 

This was proven to be true when he pulled and you lurched forward, stumbling over your own feet and his onto the concrete, falling with a yelp. Or at least, you assumed that was the sound you ended up making, as there was still this infuriating ringing in your ears. You could hope later that your eardrums hadn’t ruptured. You barely had time to feel the ground skin your palms and knees when you were being pulled up by more than one pair of arms and all but carried along. Your left arm protested, but for the second time in as many minutes, you’d take it to the alternative. 

Hell only knew where they set you down, but when they did your legs wouldn’t hold you. You landed on your left side, and you could just barely hear yourself cry out. A hot, dry pain bloomed up from your leg and ribs, and you had the sense remaining to roll over to your other side. It hurt less. 

What didn’t was propping yourself up on stinging palms so your stomach could empty itself of its contents. There wasn’t much to dispose of, but it still left your mouth and throat burning. Just like your leg and arm. 

A cold hand settled at the back of your neck, wonderfully cold on your feverish skin, and you leaned your head back against it gratefully, still panting from the sprinting to… wherever you were now. Your eyes were closed, but you didn’t even try to open them-- it was too exhausting. A second hand brushed your hair back from your face, but the same hand grazing against the burned area of your arm had you closing your eyes tightly enough that you saw dots flashing behind your eyelids, clamping your jaw shut against a whimper as best you could. 

_ No. Stop. That hurts. _ A hand gently pressed against your ribs (later, you’d realize they were probably checking to see if anything was broken), but more pressure against what you now knew to be a burned area made your right arm buckle under you, and you blacked out when your head hit the floor.

* * *

 

You’d had sleepless nights, and you’d had nights where you alternated between light sleep and awareness. Needless to say, neither ever left you rested. This was a lot like a more painful version of the latter example, where any kind of sleep was viewed as a relief from the burning. Sometimes it was better-- sometimes it was worse. Mostly worse. But at some point, the incessant flames licking up the side of your leg, torso, and arm were muted, letting you rest easily and pain-free. 

It might have been four hours later, or it could have been four days later that you cracked your eyes open to a too-bright window. Given how ravenous you were, four days was probably more likely. You’d learn later that two days was actually closer to the truth. A half-lidded glance at your left side explained why it felt cool and tingly, as there were bandages with some sort of salve visible beneath the ones on your arm. It was a safe bet to assume the same was on your ribs and leg, by the similar feeling. Only they were under a sheet. 

_ Oh right. This is a bed. _ Great. You’d tried so hard to stay low-maintenance, not cause any trouble for the boys, and you were the one bundled up and bandaged up in a bed with someone else tipped back in a chair over in the corner-- oh. You tipped your head up to peer owlishly at the dark figure with crossed arms sunk back in the chair to the left of the bed, which set your head spinning but you waited until the room stilled before opening your mouth. 

“... Bucky?” 

Your voice, even to your ears, sounded like more of a croak than anything, but it must have at least been recognizable because the dark-haired man next to you raised his head. The circles under his eyes were no better (they seemed to be a permanent addition), but there was a half-healed scrape on his left cheekbone when he looked over. 

An attempt at a smile ended with a split lip on your part, but there was no return smile from him. You should have expected that, honestly. 

“... Everyone okay?” 

“You’re not.” 

The blunt answer made you chuckle quietly. God, but your throat hurt. “Besides me.” 

“Scrapes and scratches. Cracked rib or two.” 

Hearing him catalogue injuries put you a little more at ease. That was the worst of it, and you had no doubt that if there was worse, Bucky would probably list that off too. He didn’t seem like the type to pull punches, literally or metaphorically. 

You turned your head to ask him something else, but the words died in your throat when you saw something shiny in his arms. … It was metal, so not a sleeve… What, was he holding a bomb to his chest? No, bombs weren’t ridged like that-- right? The way the metal curved looked natural, almost. The sleeveless shirt he had on showed the metal extending up his arm, into the shape of well-built muscle matching his right arm. 

“... Hey Buck..?” 

“What.” 

The response was curt and brooked no conversation. But inhibitions were flaky at best for you right now. Besides,you were (physically) probably in the worst shape of your life, what could he do to you for asking? 

“... Is… that’s… … That’s your arm?” 

“Yes.” 

“... It’s natural?” 

“No.” 

“But it’s attached?” 

“Yes.” 

“It… actually looks really cool,” you admitted, eyes riveted on the shiny steel. Or at least, it seemed to be steel. There was no way of knowing really. “... Can I… look at it?” 

“... It’s killed people.” You would have had to be deaf and stupid to miss the pain in his voice, or the way Bucky still wasn’t looking at you. Your gaze softened. 

“That wasn’t your choice.” You didn’t know that. But… his avoidance of conflict hadn’t been lost on you. He wouldn’t voluntarily hurt people who didn’t deserve it, right? Briefly, the memory of him firing back through a splintered wall returned to you, and the way the other shooters had quieted, one by one. He had killed them without a second thought. 

“... You didn’t have another choice,” you rephrased, gently reaching out to lay a hand on his right shoulder. Bucky twitched, as though he wanted to shrug your hand off, but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything further, either. “... May I see it?” 

“You don’t want to.” His reply was immediate and final, to the degree that this time you questioned the wisdom of pressing the matter. Two weeks ago, when Steve had showed up at your door with Bucky in his worn out baseball cap, you wouldn’t have even considered asking again. But either a near-death experience or something blocking the pain was giving you the impression it might’ve been the right idea. Still, you chose your words carefully. 

“... I think… maybe I should be the judge of that,” you told him quietly, running your thumb over the skin beneath your hand, which was still on his right shoulder. If he said no again, you wouldn’t push any more. This was the last try, you decided. He’d been hiding it up to now, while he was with you, when he arrived with Steve, any time you could remember. And now that you thought about it, it explained a lot. Why his fingers were cold when he took the plate. Why he always wore gloves. The long sleeves. Why his hand looked like it was glinting when he reached down to you at the marina. 

You could almost hear the gears in his head turning when Bucky glanced over at you, seemingly appraising the situation. If it were anyone else, you’d say they were sizing you up, but with Bucky… 

He looked vulnerable. The tension of his lower lip and brows gave him away, but you continued evenly gazing at him. You wouldn’t push. He would decide, yes or no, and you’d let it go when he answered in the negative, and you wouldn’t ask again because he would have settled on ‘no’ and--

… And he was mutely moving his left arm over for you to inspect. 

_ Well. Didn’t expect that. _ You smiled at him, causing your lip to split a little further, and you sucked on it to prevent any blood dripping anywhere when you looked down at the silver-colored arm now laying lightly across your lap. It was exquisitely detailed, with pieces slotted together every couple centimeters. When his fingers moved, you could see ‘tendons’ shifting under the surface, and the ‘muscle’ of his upper arm rolled with each movement. You experimentally and delicately ran your fingers up the inside of his forearm, feather-light, only to stop abruptly when Bucky shuddered. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled, glancing up at him. 

“No, it’s… fine,” he said quietly. “... You have no idea how that feels.”

With his clearance, you resumed your examination, carefully turning his arm over and lightly dragging your fingertips down the back of his forearm. The metal was smooth and all very cold, which (when you thought about it) wasn’t surprising. After all, insofar as you could tell from the gaps in the metal plating, there was no flesh beneath it-- it was metal through and through. It was incredible, though-- it still moved like a real human arm. It had no give to it like flesh should, but rolled and moved properly, as if all the muscles had anchors further within the arm. 

“... This is incredible,” you finally murmured, reaching forward (or as far as your burns would let you stretch) to gently pull his elbow closer so you could examine the upper half of his metal arm. There was a red star engraved on the deltoid, and you traced it as lightly as you could. A thousand questions breezed through your mind at the same time--  _ Who made this? Why? How? Why did you need it? Did you want it? How old is it relative to you? What can it stand up to? Have you had this the entire time? What’s it made of? Are there any limits to it? _

But frankly, there was only one that seemed ‘safe’ to ask. “... So… this is sensitive? You can definitely feel this?” you asked softly, once again sliding your fingers down his arm. In response, he shivered, which cemented the answer you thought you had to this question. “That’s a yes, then. … Is there any water?” 

You were rather abruptly aware of how dry your mouth and throat were, and without hesitation Bucky stood and momentarily left the small room. You took the opportunity to observe the room you were in. It looked like an ill-furnished hotel room with a small crap television and two windows, mostly curtained. A low murmur from through the doorway had you thinking that Steve and Sam were probably in good shape, and then Bucky was back with a bottle of water that he walked over to hand to you. 

“Thanks,” you murmured, unscrewing the lid and taking a small sip. Too much at once would be bad, so... small sips. After you’d quenched your thirst came more questions. In fact, the million-dollar question: “What happened..?” 

“Grenade,” Bucky replied quietly, keeping both arms to himself. If you didn’t know better, you’d have said he looked slightly confused or concerned about something, going by his eyebrows. 

“Nobody else hurt? Aside from the aforementioned cracked ribs,” you added with a ghost of a smile. 

“No.”

“Good. Are  _ you _ okay?” 

“... Yeah."

He hesitated slightly, but you didn’t comment on it. It meant he’d thought about it, and that you had no problem with. 

“... Right! I think I’m ready to get up and attack the day!” you declared, tossing the covers back and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. You didn’t have pants on, but you had underwear and really they were almost the same as a bathing suit, right? 

“No. Absolutely not.” Immediately, Bucky was on his feet and gently pushing your shoulders back down, and you scowled at him. 

“I feel fine!”

“No you don’t. You’re on painkillers that aren’t light.” 

“So keep me on them, we need to get somewhere else, right?"

He made a quietly frustrated sound. “You’re staying here.”

“Oh you are  _ NOT _ leaving me behind,” you said angrily, but he waved you off.

“You’re staying in bed,” Bucky clarified, straightening up when you leaned back against the headboard again. 

“... Fine. But you’ve gotta give me something to do. If Sam won’t put me through hell with exercises so I can burn off energy, I’ve got to do something or that TV--” You nodded at the sad little machine across the room. “-- Will end up in pieces, because I will dismantle it. That’s what happens when I get bored.” 

You almost swore you saw a hint of a smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll bring you a book or something.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“One condition.” 

Almost instantly your face morphed into an expression somewhere between a grimace and a warning look. Being pain-free and slightly loopy tended to make you a bit expressive and silly, it seemed. “Oh?” 

“You make SOS when we’re out of the shit we’re in now.” 

A surprised giggle escaped you before you could stop it. “I’ll be happy to,” you said warmly. “As long as I can get the things I’ll need, I’ll even do it before then.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While healing, sometimes you just need to make do by way of entertaining yourself. Also there's some Serious Discussions in here somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back in my home country, left my home again to visit my father a few hundred miles away, and fly back home tomorrow. I'd say it's about time for an update. This was one of my favorites to write.

It was only day two of hiding here, and you felt like taking a pencil or something and making tally marks on the wall. Except that would probably get whatever security deposit Steve had put down ratcheted up, and you had a feeling whatever money they had on hand wasn’t infinite. 

Then again, he DID have a bank account that had been gathering interest since the forties. 

A glance at the clock provided you with a choice piece of information-- it was around four pm, and that meant one thing. Well, probably more than one thing, but only one thing that mattered to you.

You got up with a quiet groan, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed and feeling a dulled tingling sensation from the burned one before walking (very unsteadily and using the wall as a brace) to the other room, where Bucky sat cleaning… some part of his gun. You didn’t know what part it was when it was in pieces like that.

“Hey Buck? D’you know where Steve went?” you asked quietly, stifling a yawn. You weren’t even tired, but boredom was getting the better of you.

“Out.”

Of course he did. But you didn’t press-- if the two of them wanted you to know one of them would tell you. Then again, blindly trusting them had gotten you blown up. But what other choice did you really have?

“What about Sam?”

“With him.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“Soon enough.”

Normally you wouldn’t have wheedled the guy with question after question, but this was important, damn it!

“Before five?”

“Soon.”

“Damn it. Okay. Be that way,” you groused. “I need your help.”

“With?”

“My bandages need changed and I can’t reach it all myself,” you responded, hating to admit that yes, you actually did need help with something. You hated feeling like an invalid.

“You’re up and walking. You can do it yourself.”

For a good long minute, you just stared at him. You weren’t really sure what you expected-- help, for sure-- but given everything else you’d learned about Bucky so far, this… actually seemed like his kind of response to something.

“No, I really can’t,” you corrected him after a long pause. “Not unless I want to tear something open and delay healing. If my choices were do it myself or die, I wouldn’t have come to ask for help-- but I have come to ask for help because I really can’t do it myself without something else splitting back open,” you told him curtly. This would be about the point in the conversation where you’d cross your arms, except that would probably do the same thing you were trying to avoid, so you didn’t. “I’m serious, Bucky, I wouldn’t ask for help if I could do it myself.”

“The fresh bandages and supplies are on the nightstand,” he told you without glancing away from what he was doing. And if there was anything you knew about him, it was that there was nothing on the planet you could use to force him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Look, if it’s because you have a thing against seeing me shirtless or you’d prefer I died, both are easily circumvented by saying so,” you bitched, scowling at him before turning back into the bedroom.

Yeah, you were behaving like a child. But it hurt, damnit, and you just wanted to heal as fast as you could rather than cut off the healing at every turn. And he wasn’t helping with that at all. Plus, the painkillers were starting to wear off, so yeah, you were a little grouchy. Rightfully so, in your opinion. 

You sat on the edge of the bed and glared at the roll of bandages as though  _ it _ were the source of all your problems. “I can’t do this,” you muttered under your breath, wincing as a twinge of pain hit you through your ribs.

But Bucky wasn’t going to help, and god knew when Steve would be back, so you had to do it yourself.

With a bit of effort, you removed the over-loose t-shirt you’d been given, and winced as you were lifting your left arm to access where the end of the bandage had been tucked under itself. Just those movements had you hissing through your teeth in pain-- and reinforcing your knowledge that no, you really couldn’t do this by yourself.

“Ow!!” you whimpered in what a friend of yours would refer to as a stage whisper, only this wasn’t strictly a fake whimper. “Shit, fuck, shit fuck shit-- Ow!!” You weren’t faking any of this, just… making it louder. That way  _ some _ one might get the bright idea to come help. “God--  _ fuck _ this hurts-- I’m in hell-- fuck I thought those painkillers were supposed to go for another two hours--  _ shit _ breathe just breathe  _ OW _ \--”

It was about halfway through one of these phrases that there was a single knock at the door before it opened. If you’d been home alone, this might have alarmed you, but hey, you were kind of counting on this.

“Just… be quiet,” he ordered, gently pressing your arms out of the way so he could reach where you’d left off with peeling the bandages away from your torso.

“Sir yes sir,” you muttered, wincing at the sudden cold from one of his hands. You knew which one now, and you knew why. Bucky was still wearing long sleeves sometimes (probably habit, if you had to guess), but he’d foregone the gloves on a regular basis. Today was a sleeveless kind of day, or at least short sleeves. And you enjoyed looking at and examining his arm (a joy you weren’t sure if he shared), but that didn’t mean it wasn’t metal right now-- and that meant it was  _ cold _ . And something very cold against burned flesh where all the nerve endings had been burned away did not a pleasant combination make. 

All the same, you appreciated the help.

Honestly, it didn’t bother you much that fully changing the bandages meant your breasts were bare. They were a part of you, everyone knew they were there, and besides, people had seen them before. Bucky had probably also seen boobs before, and he didn’t seem to either stare at them or avoid them, so that was comforting. Steve would avoid looking at them at all costs, which you supposed you could understand based on what you knew of him.

The old bandages were dropped in the bin before Bucky frowned, taking a piece of gauze and pressing it to one section of your ribs that you would have needed to twist awkwardly to reach. “You’ve broken it open again.”

“Saw that coming,” you quipped, obediently holding still (despite the fact that it  _ hurt _ ).

“Can it.”

“Sir yes sir.”

“And cut that out.”

“Ma’am yes ma’am.”

You heard a quiet exhale through the nose behind you, and you fancied that you’d gotten a soft smile out of him. But that might’ve been wishful thinking. “... Seriously though. I need the painkillers after this is done. I feel like I’ve been blown off the side of a marina,” you teased gently, though your smile vanished in a second in favor of a cringe when whatever Bucky smeared on the cracked section  _ stung. _ “Oh, that feels very not nice.”

“And getting blown off the side of the marina did?”

_ Was that a joke? _ It pulled a smile from you anyway, because it sounded sarcastic and dry-- your brand of humor, in short. “Well, I never said  _ that, _ ” you said, playing along. “Just that this doesn’t feel nice. Just covering all my bases.”

“Playing it safe?”

“I usually do,” you hummed, unable to help a sharp inhale as something pulled just slightly too far one way or another.

“... Sorry.”

Your surprise at an  _ apology _ from the man you least expected it from almost made your reply come too late.

“What— no, it’s… no harm done, it just hurts. It would hurt even if it wasn’t you, seriously. It’s okay,” you attempted to reassure him, offering a slightly pained smile. You weren’t sure if smiles worked on him, but hell if you weren’t going to at least try. You thought they did, back at your home. Briefly, you wondered if it was there anymore. What if it wasn’t? What if the people after the three of them— well. Four of you— pulled your house apart? It was your first house you’d had all by yourself, kept up by yourself, the first thing you’d moved into after graduating. It felt like an old friend, and what if they were destroying it right now—

“Stop it.”

“Huh?” You looked back to Bucky with a confused expression, jolted out of your suddenly suffocating thoughts. “Stop what?”

“Thinking about it.”

Your stomach flipped. “About what?”  _ How could he tell? _

“About the place you left behind. You’re not there. They’ll look through it, but it’s impersonal. They’re not going to destroy anything of yours out of spite,” he said in a low voice, gently tying off the end of the new bandages around your ribcage. Your arm and leg were left to rewrap, but you could handle those yourself. Maybe he’d leave you to do those by yourself, since you could move enough for those now.

You thought to ask. But you didn’t.

If he wanted to help, he’d offer. And he hadn’t. So you resigned yourself to doing the rest of it yourself. And that was okay. You were a capable adult, you could do this now that the hard part was over. You shifted, reaching to take the roll of bandages from his hand. “Thanks—”

“What are you doing?”

There was no question in the world quite like that to make someone falter, you included.

“I’m gonna finish rewrapping my leg and my arm.”

Without more than a look, Bucky somehow managed to stop your words in their tracks. You raised an eyebrow at him, but it was a tired one.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh?” you asked skeptically, a bit of sass coming back to you as a defense mechanism.  _ Stop thinking about home. It will be there when you get back. _ “Enlighten me, then.”

“You pitched such a  _ fit _ over needing help, how could I leave you to suffer through this by yourself?” The slightest upward turn on the outside corners of his eyes matched the underlying playful tone in his voice, and you decided you liked hearing it. “Besides, to reach your leg you’d need to twist and you said yourself you can’t do that properly.”

You stared at him for a long minute. He didn’t budge. You had to wonder if it was a left over sense of compassion that had him saying this, or if it was just obligation because he’d gotten you into this (though that wasn’t strictly his fault).

Regardless, there was no pity in his eyes, so you’d take it.

“Okay,” you agreed softly, moving around on the bed to make your left leg more accessible by stretching it out on the mattress. You picked at where the bandages started, not wanting to meet his eyes for some reason. The idea was an intimidating one. … And for only a moment you had to wonder if he was easier to talk to when he barely responded. Though you knew now that wasn’t true. He responded to everything you’d said. It just took a little time to learn to read him.

The silence between you two when Bucky began to unwrap the rest of the bandages in a practiced motion was a comfortable silence. It wasn’t waiting for something to fill it, and you weren’t pressured to say anything. Neither was he. And there were too few people in the world who could sit in a quiet room with someone else and be comfortable. Needless to say, you appreciated it.

You handed him the salve when he reached for it, noting with a sense of pleasure that he was no longer trying to hide the metal limb with its dexterous fingers from you. He didn’t hesitate or flinch when you reached for it a moment later, tracing the horizontal lines cutting it into sections. He paused in his actions to allow you to, leaving the rough, damaged flesh of your leg uncovered for a few moments.

It was an interesting comparison, seeing the burned skin lined up next to impossibly polished metal. And you thought his arm was beautiful— your leg, less so. You wanted badly to ask where it had come from, whether it was actually steel as it seemed to be, but that felt just a little too much like prying to be acceptable.

So with a last, slightly wistful look at Bucky’s arm, you released it so he could finish the job he had set himself, and he continued caring for your wound without a word or any kind of judgmental look.

You thought— hoped, but you had enough evidence you could afford to assume— that he might have seen you by now on relatively equal ground. Not physically, you could never hope to match his rigorous standards, and not morally, you had little idea what he’d done by way of a moral compass, but… you thought he might respect you, a little. Or at least your opinions. It was a fragile thing, tentative as could be, but it was respect nonetheless.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence while Bucky re-wrapped your leg. And even while you knew your arm was next to be unwrapped and re-wrapped didn’t have the same sense of foreboding as it did when you were facing the task by yourself.

Guess it just went to show how a bit of comfortable silence with a companion helped out a lot of situations.

“Buck? ____? We’re back.” 

You heard Steve’s voice from the main living area, followed by a closing door, and you also noticed how Bucky didn’t so much as twitch. He probably heard them before they were at the door. 

“We’re in here,” you called, though it wasn’t really necessary. There was only this room and the bathroom for you two to be hiding. 

Steve poked his head in, noting your current state of dress and what Bucky was actively doing, and the dark-haired man tipped his head up over his shoulder to smile at Steve. You stared for a long moment. This was the first time you’d seen him smile, and it caused a matching one on your own face.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Steve told the two of you, holding out a white plastic bag. “We stopped at a drugstore, picked up more bandages for you. Figured you’d probably be running low. That stuff’s gotta stay covered until it’s healed over at least a little bit, or it’ll get infected.”

“Yeah, I know,” you hummed, taking the bag from him and glancing at the contents. Bandages, disinfectant, some medical tape to hold the bandages in place, and some more of that greenish opaque cream salve stuff or whatever they’d been putting on it. Felt cool and nice, but less nice when you’d cracked the wound open again. Like you had earlier trying to do this yourself. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Sure thing.” He was quiet for a moment, eyes going between you and Bucky, who’d tied off the bandages around your knee and had shifted to the ones starting at your shoulder. “We’re thinking we need to move soon.”

“How soon is soon?” you questioned, raising your eyebrows.

“Tomorrow. Tonight if you can manage.” His gaze was calculating, not that you expected much less. He was probably trying to decide more than a few things at once, like how safe it was, the best way to go, and so on.

Looking down at your left side, you made a noise of acknowledgment. You could walk on this, just not easily. The jolt going up your body every time your left foot hit the ground, however gently, rattled all of the burned flesh and it  _ hurt _ . So moving was okay to do. Moving with any kind of speed, however, was out of the question. And they would need to move with speed.

And for a moment, you had to consider whether it might not be a good idea to just… go home and save them the trouble of looking after you.

No, that was a stupid idea. If the guys after the three of them knew about you at all, your house wasn’t safe anymore. Besides which, by this point you weren’t sure if you could handle not knowing if they would be okay or not.

But it would just be one more thing to not know.

“I can manage.” The words were quiet, but you were determined. “... They know about me, don’t they..?” you finally asked hesitantly. “I can’t go home, not while you guys are still running? And you can’t just… dump me at an urgent care or something?” Your gaze turned to your hands in your lap. “I know I can’t move as fast, and it would be easier if I wasn’t—”

“Stop.”

You risked a glance upwards to find Bucky staring at you with an odd expression. His mouth was hard, set. His eyes weren’t.

“We’re not leaving you behind.”

This was stupid. You felt like you needed to argue with him. There were all of these reasons why they should. You opened your mouth—

— only for a steely hand to clamp over it, which in itself shocked you to silence. You couldn’t help an irritated look over Bucky’s hand.

“No arguing.”

If this were his flesh and blood hand you might have bitten him just to make a point, especially at that order. However, you also had a feeling if you tried that here, that your teeth would suffer the short end of the stick.

Bucky turned his head to look back up at Steve. “Tonight, you said?”

Steve nodded. “Tonight if possible. Any sooner under cover of dark is best.” His eyes flicked to you again, evaluating. You glared at him, still silenced for the moment. You’d be ready to move, all right. You’d put that irritation to good use, if nothing else. “... Buck, I think she can answer for herself now.”

Bucky tipped his head to the side to give you an appraising look. Oh, you could answer for yourself alright. And it wouldn’t be flattering to him right now. He must have seen that in your eyes, because he shook his head, eyes glittering in what might have been amusement. “No, I think she can handle it. We’ll just support her a little extra.”

_ Support me my ass. _

There was a quiet  _ chink _ in the room as, despite what you’d told yourself, you tried to bite his fingers anyway. Steve heard it, and hid a smile, turning to leave the room. “When it’s dark, then.”

“Got it,” Bucky agreed easily, waiting until the door was shut again before removing his hand from your mouth. “And we’ve got to make sure you’re ready.”

We? Well. You couldn’t very well argue with that. Except that you would damn well try.

“I’ve got this,” you said testily, crossing your arms before remembering exactly why that was a bad idea and uncrossing them. “I can be up and around and ready by dark.” 

“The sun sets in two and a quarter hours,” he said flatly. “You can’t move the way you need to in order to keep up.”

“And you still maintain you won’t just… hide me somewhere and wait for all of this to blow over?” you retorted. It warmed your heart just a little bit though, that he refused to leave you behind. Or maybe it was a security measure. Either way it made you feel just a little bit warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Except in times like these, when he was being stubborn, which was a new development.

“Right.”

You let out a sound that was sort of like a muffled scream into your hands. “So whether I like it or not I’m going with you, and I’m probably going to slow us all down and get you guys captured or in trouble or something. Is that right?”

“Right.” His nod seemed a little less certain this time, but the playful light in his eyes was gone. They then softened a little. “I meant it. We’re not leaving you behind.”

“Why not?” God, you sounded like a petulant teenager. “If all I’m going to do is be that stick in the mud or whatever, I can’t possibly stick with you guys. Then all this is for nothing!”

“You don’t know what ‘this’ is, not entirely,” he pointed out in a tone that almost sounded gentle. And it sobered you some.

“Maybe not,” you admitted, looking down at your hands, “But I know enough to know that getting caught would be a really bad thing for any one of us. And I’m the most likely to get snatched—” You broke off. If you got taken, it would be arrogant to assume they’d turn themselves in to save you. You wouldn’t ask that of them, nor expect it. But if you assumed they wouldn’t, it might insult them as a group, or just insult Bucky, which was one of the last things you wanted to do.

But it was still on the list.

“—I’m the most likely to get snatched and you guys won’t stop and come back, because that would make all of this pointless,” you continued, steeling your nerves.

“We won’t leave you behind—”

“That’s my point,” you interrupted, finally looking him in the eye. “You guys wouldn’t leave me behind if they caught up to me. And that’s exactly what you’d have to do.”

“You don’t know what we’re doing this for. How can you make that kind of conclusion with the information you have?” His gaze was calculating now, and not at all gentle. You met it squarely.

“Because I trust all three of you. And I trust whatever cause this is for, it’s a good one. One that— that’s probably more important than I am.” Your words caught in your throat. This wasn’t being noble. This wasn’t being the bigger person. It was just the harsh reality. You were a single person in a universe that was being explored more by the day and was growing to Earth’s awareness. Your position in the universe was therefore shrinking. So was their cause.

That didn’t change the fact that your position in said universe was still smaller than whatever they were doing the running and hiding thing for.

Bucky didn’t argue with your point. You were glad. It would have felt too much like the protagonist’s line in some adventure fiction novel of the type you’d liked to read in high school, and it would have made this feel less real. And this was as gritty and real as it got, and it was going to get worse before it got better, if you had to guess. The reality of it was that you were a smaller cause than what they were fighting for, and if they wouldn’t leave you behind, you’d have to find a way to make them.

“If they catch me— and there’s a very real possibility that they might— you, all three of you, you’re going to have to keep going,” you whispered, gently resting your right hand over the metal one resting on the sheets next to your leg. When did you get this familiar with his prosthetic? It hadn’t been that long since you’d learned of it. “If you don’t, I’ll personally beat the daylights out of each and every one of you.”

The corners of his eyes turned up, but nothing else changed. “I mean it. I’m capable of beating you all up. I was that kid who took others’ lunch money in school,” you continued, gesturing with your right arm before wincing as doing so pulled at the skin of the left side of your ribcage again.

Reaching out, he gently lowered your arm to a manageable height. “I believe it. Though I feel like Steve might get off with rapped knuckles relative to me.”

“Trust me, you’ll be the one in the most trouble.”

He smiled then, and his eyes crinkled a little more at the edges. “I do,” he said after a long moment, gently patting an unharmed part of your leg before standing and making for the door. “Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you before we need to leave.”

You nodded with a quiet yawn, shuffling down gently under the sheets to curl loosely on your right side. You felt a little bad about taking the only bed in this place, but not bad enough to offer it back. Besides, the three of them probably wouldn’t take it. Bucky you knew preferred to sleep on the floor, Steve (from your experience) was chivalrous enough that it wouldn’t work on him, and Sam… well, from what you knew of Sam, Sam would cover it with some ‘I’m not a delicate flower’ nonsense.

Regardless, you planned to at least get a little rest before you all headed out, you decided, closing your eyes and willing yourself to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need a reminder that Bucky may not know "classic" movies, or get recent references.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second here to thank you guys for all the feedback and the kudos, it really warms my heart and I appreciate it immensely! This chapter felt a little shorter to me, but that might just mean I'll need to upload another chapter sooner rather than later.

You’d never been to Italy before. Frankly, you wished you could be here under different circumstances— sightseeing, for instance— but alas, you barely got a glimpse of the lovely countryside speeding past you. Or rather, that you were speeding past. Steve was behind the wheel, hurtling down a road at a speed bordering on life-threatening. Sam was sitting in the passenger seat, and Bucky was behind him. You sat next to Bucky. 

Did the arrangement turn out due to leg space? Possibly. Were the fates intent on shoving the two of you together as much as possible? More likely. 

You were mildly grateful that in Italy, one drove on the right side of the road. The right side also happened to be the correct side. On the other hand, it meant you were on the driver’s side of the car, and therefore at the most risk if Steve happened to slam into somebody. Who knew, he might be fine, and Sam and Bucky were on the other side so they might be fine, but you? You’d be pancaked. It was currently all you could do to cling to your seat, which of course meant you were all but rattling around on the cushion of the old volkswagen, occasionally bumping against Bucky’s still-covered arm during sharp left turns. 

There weren’t many. 

“Can we slow down?” you managed in a very small voice, only to receive a head shake from Steve. 

“I’d like to get there as fast as possible. They think we’re running from them, there’s no reason they’d check an old safe house they stopped using years ago.” Later, you’d conclude that as long as there was clean running water, you’d be fine. For now… you’d like to not die. 

That was about the time a too-cold hand gently pried yours from where your nails were digging into the seat cushion, offering themselves as an alternative. A little too distracted to think about the fact that this had happened, it was several more miles down the road that you realized both of your hands were tightly clenched around Bucky’s metal hand— the one that you didn’t think you could hurt. You’d asked him about it, when you all left the motel. 

_ “I can feel with it, yeah. I have— had to. Otherwise it wouldn’t work like I needed it to.” _

_ “But not pain?”  _

_ “Not pain. Discomfort maybe. If it was incapacitating, I wouldn’t have been able to do my job.”  _

_ “Your job..?” _

He’d gone quiet then, and said little else until the plane flight, where he’d seemed to shut down completely. You hadn’t pressed, though you had patted his shoulder after the plane was in the air. You did wonder, when you’d seen the news blasted across every screen and phone, about whether what he was doing was of his own free will. You’d hoped not, and after knowing him for this long, you’d privately decided there was no way he could. You wouldn’t call Bucky a gentle soul, not exactly, but… tired. Tired of running. Tired of fighting. 

You slotted your fingers between his, focusing a little more on loosening your grip and less on the breakneck speed the car was hurtling down the road at. Bucky’s arm— the metal one, at least, though the flesh-and-blood arm had its merits— served as a wonderful distraction at present, and you finally tore your gaze from the road in front of you. Delicately, you traced the edges of the plates on his arm, and around the inside of his wrist with your fingertips. You knew there to be a red star on his deltoid, or what would have been his deltoid if this arm were still real, but the long sleeves he wore now hid the metal down past his forearm. His other hand was gloved and held the glove for his left hand; your heart warmed a bit to realize he’d taken it off for you, if only to distract you from the road. 

“Thank you,” you murmured quietly, keeping your eyes on the way the silvery plates clicked slightly when he turned his palm over, allowing you to inspect his fingers, all the way to the ends where a fingernail should have been. You’d seen a few prosthetics in your time. This one put them all to shame. 

‘It’s killed people,’ he’d said. Not  _ he _ had killed people, although that might well have been true (probably was), but  _ it _ had killed people. 

‘It,’ as though it weren’t a part of him. As though he didn’t want it to be, wasn’t accepting that it was. Still couldn’t accept it, though it had as much use to him as (if not more than) the one it had hypothetically replaced. Hypothetically because you’d never asked him about it. It wasn’t your place to ask something that might be so personal to him. 

However, that caution did not extend to how his arm worked, as evidenced in the past. 

At least he wasn’t afraid for you to see it anymore, if that had been the issue in the first place. You could try to read his face, when he showed expressions, but you weren’t arrogant enough to try and assume that you knew what he was thinking. Bucky was a complex human being— all people were. And it wasn’t your place to assume you knew what was going through someone’s mind. You could try, sure, but it would usually backfire. Therefore, reading a reaction was far safer for all involved. 

And Bucky had reactions. He showed them, and for you now, they were clear as day. The way the permanent wrinkle between his eyebrows flickered when he was unsure, or the very slightest incline in his head when he didn’t understand something that had been explained. You recognized the faintest upturn at the corner of his eyes for what it was, as something that could pass for a smile. You knew the way his bottom lip pursed when something wasn’t ideal. 

By this point you weren’t sure if you’d just gotten better at reading his expressions, or if he trusted you just enough to show them. But whatever the situation was, you’d take it. 

“We’re here.” 

Your head rose when you realized the vehicle had stopped outside what looked like it used to be a small villa. It was hidden away in a grove of olive trees with ivy obscuring a corner of the building extending up to its roof, and save for the crack leading up the front wall next to the door, it looked picturesque. 

The short tower and satellite behind it ruined the image. 

Steve and Sam were first out of the car, with Bucky following soon after. He had a little difficulty getting out, due to where Sam had left his seat. If there was one thing you’d learned of the two, they didn’t seem to get along flawlessly. Case in point, Bucky had asked if Sam could move his seat up earlier in the drive. A curt 'no’ had a slightly irritated-looking Bucky sliding slightly more towards the middle of the car instead. He'd seemed slightly grumpy about the idea, and if you hadn't been scared stiff by the speed you'd been going at, you might have laughed. 

“Looks too pretty to be a former SHIELD base.” 

You hummed with a smile, looking up at Bucky as he stopped next to you. The smallest of duffel bags was slung over his shoulder, and its color was a far cry from what it used to be. Yours… had disappeared somewhere along the way. His had guns. 

“I was just thinking the same thing,” you responded quietly, eyes searching his face. He wasn't relaxed, or he didn't seem to be, but… better. Better than you'd seen him so far, perhaps with the exception of some moments when the two of you had been talking the last time he helped change your bandages. New skin was growing over the burned areas now. It would scar, nothing could help that, but as he'd put it last night, they'd been earned as far as he was concerned. 

Maybe it had just been him choosing words intended to comfort. Maybe he was serious. Whatever the case, it did help, and while you weren't  _ happy _ about the scarring looming on the horizon, you didn't read the changes quite so much anymore. 

“I don't think they could have been here long. Otherwise it might feel more like a secret base,” you commented, raising your eyebrows when Steve waved the two of you forwards. 

“Come on. I think the stairs are all intact, even if the elevator doesn't work anymore.” 

That caught you off guard. “Elevator?” you repeated with some difficulty. 

Steve nodded. “Yeah. The entire base is underground.” 

After a brief moment, you had to shake your head, realizing you really didn't know what to expect. And upon reflection, this was a really simple thing to have guessed. 

Oh well. You were tired. That was your excuse and you were sticking to it. After all, you hadn't gotten much sleep on the plane, and what you had gotten had been questionable. At one point you’d jerked awake with your head on Sam’s arm, profusely apologized, and were soon asleep again, only to jerk back upright moments later. 

You didn't think Bucky had slept on the plane at all. Steve… maybe. A little, at best. He still had circles under his eyes this morning to rival Bucky’s, which were something to behold by themselves.

“Hey. C’mon.” 

“Oh— sorry.” You were jerked out of your sleep-deprived musings when Bucky bumped your arm, heading towards the doorway, and you scurried after him. The inside of the house wasn't impressive. It was small, with a low roof, and a few defiant flowers had grown in corners with long strands of yellow grass. Somehow all of the window panes were intact. 

Steve and Sam stood over by what looked like a trapdoor, with a set of steel steps leading downwards. “The lights still work, at least,” Steve murmured, sliding his shield into place on his back and starting down. You couldn't help a quick look around the house nature was taking back, wishing that you could stay somewhere in the sun, somewhere open and beautiful. 

Nope. Downstairs for you. 

Bucky indicated the stairs, gesturing for you to go first. “Ladies first?” you guessed playfully, only to have him shake his head once, staring at you from behind too-long hair. 

“I'm bringing up the rear,” he responded quietly. And you were reminded (not for the first time) that Bucky thought like a soldier, not a civilian like you, even with the action movies you'd watched that didn't even begin to compare. It would be embarrassing to even try to compare any of your experiences to what he had been through. “Let’s go. We can't stay out in the open.” 

“Oh-- sorry.”  _ I have got to stop zoning out. _ “Is there somewhere I can crash down here for a couple hours?” you asked, starting carefully down the steps. Grime was forming at the corners and edges of the stairs, so you walked with caution. 

“Probably.” 

“Will you help me find one?” 

“If the area is secure.” 

That wasn't a no. “Thank you.” 

“Don't thank me yet. They might have left a tiger down here or something.” 

_ Was that a joke? _ You tipped your head to give him a quizzical look. The light was bad down here, but you thought you might have seen the corners of his lips quirking up. You shook your head at him as you smiled. “Just watch. That will be prophetic or something. There won't just be a tiger down there, it will be a hungry liger instead.” 

“What's a liger?” 

Oh right. Not a recent thing, or even relatively recent, but later than him. 

“Uhh, sterile offspring between a lion and a tiger,” you explained, reaching the bottom of the stairs and looking around. It looked like you were in a control room, with several branches leading in different directions and computer stations set up in rows. The computers were old, at least by your standards, and were these huge chunks of monitors with the noisy keyboards that went  _ clackity-clackity-clackity _ when you typed on them. Nothing looked like it had been used or even touched in at least a decade. “... These things look ancient,” you murmured, drawing your fingers across one dusty screen. “I wonder if they still work. Maybe some would have  _ Galaga _ on them.” 

“Let's hope they work,” Steve said, rubbing his eyes. “Otherwise it means a lot of literal paperwork and hunting on something that may be a wild goose chase.” 

“Good luck,” you commented, tapping one or two keys. “Unless there's a generator hiding in the corner there's no way these things are turning on.” 

Steve’s gaze sharpened. “If they turn on do you think you can search them?” 

You cast an incredulous look over your shoulder, before turning to put your hands on your hips with a wide smile. “Excuse me sir, you're talking to the computer whiz of my elementary school, when I worked with these dinosaurs!” 

After a short moment of silence, Bucky repeated, “... Dinosaurs?” 

You backpedaled. “Not that these are dinosaurs I mean you guys are only a teensy bit older and you guys look  _ great _ these things just didn't age well I mean--” 

“We aged just fine.” 

It would occur to you later that Bucky might have been teasing you. But for now, his voice was far too deadpan, and you were trying not to offend the guys keeping you safe (and at one point, alive). 

“ _ That’s not what I meant _ you guys have aged  _ beautifully _ just these things… haven’t, you know, what with the smartphone and screens less than a centimeter thick and everything, you get me, right??” The last question was asked with a little desperation, and you noticed now in your peripheral vision that Sam was turned away, with one hand up to his face and his shoulders shaking. And that’s about when it sunk in they were just giving you shit. 

You scowled, but it was playful after a moment or two. You’d have done the same in their place to one of them, Bucky maybe not included because you weren’t certain of his mental state just yet. 

“Rude.” 

Sam burst out laughing, Steve chuckled a bit, and even Bucky rumbled a quiet sound that might have been a laugh. “So do you think you can work with these, power notwithstanding?” Steve asked after a moment, eyes still shining with leftover amusement. 

“... Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” you said confidently. “It might take a while, these will probably be slow, but I think I can work with them. It’ll take a while to remember some commands though.” 

“Whatever you can do will help,” Steve said, “But don’t open any programs or anything you don’t know what it does. There’s always the chance something with a tracker could activate— and that’s the last thing we need.” 

“Yessir,” you said, reaching down to brush off the seat of the nearest chair only to jump back with a squeak at the spider hiding in the cobwebs there. It seemed equally alarmed. “... Okay one of you needs to take this thing outside. Spiders are cool but come on friend I need to sit there and I don’t want to squish you.” 

Without a word, Bucky moved forward to gently enclose the spider in the fingers of his metal hand, taking it back upstairs. “Thanks!” you called after him, brushing off the rest of the seat and sitting down. “Does either of  _ you _ know where the generator might be? That’s our best hope for getting these things started, I think.” 

Steve turned to Sam, who nodded slowly. “I think I saw one in one of the doorways on the way down here. The lights are still working, which means something is still on.”

You frowned. “They  _ are _ on, I hadn’t noticed. What kind of generator would still be working after this long?” 

He shrugged. “Solar-powered one, if I had to guess. This is a pretty good country to set one up in. I’ll go take a look around.” 

It did make sense. “That’s true. I mean, from what I’ve seen. You never really hear about it raining in Italy, do you?” you mused. “Like, I’m sure it does, but it’s not something I’ve ever really thought about.” 

“It’s fairly dry here.” Bucky was back, silently stepping off the stairs and into the conversation. “Mostly sunny, but close to the equator, the sun’s more potent.” 

“So we’ll all get a nice tan,” you joked, not missing how his answer was more tactical than conversational. You supposed it was the only information he could use to contribute to the conversation, which meant he  _ wanted _ to be part of it, right? Right. You smiled up at him as he came to stand behind your chair, peering at the screen. It flickered. “Oh, I guess Sam found the generator. … I wonder how old this thing is,” you murmured, using your palm to wipe the dust off of the glass as a green blinking line appeared in the top left. 

“How long has it been since you used one of these?” Bucky’s voice came from behind your right ear, and for some reason you had to fight the urge to shiver. 

“Dunno. Years,” you hummed, typing in a command you thought might work. “Let’s see if there are any files left here.” 

“If they were smart they’d have wiped everything,” Bucky murmured, pulling up the chair next to you to stare at the screen. 

_./usr/share/: [7.4GB in 251 files or directories] _

_ 5.8 GB [77.17%] ./doc/ _

“Well. There you have it,” you commented, turning your head to glance at him. “Most of what’s in here is documents or documentation, probably. And for the time they made this, that’s actually a lot of information.” 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Your eyes softened and you reached with your right hand to gently lay it on his shoulder. At a guess, he was worried about other people like him. You had no way of knowing for sure. But it was what you would be worried about if you were in his position. Other people like him out wandering around, without as much of a hope of redemption. 

After a long moment, he nodded once before rising from his chair and going down one of the dark hallways from this main room. You looked after him, looking a bit lost. Had you offended him? He hadn’t seemed angry, but… his face had looked blank. A bit like the expression when Steve had knocked at your door and his smile had vanished, a few weeks ago. It was a little scary. 

A hand patting your shoulder had you glancing up at Steve, who looked vaguely sympathetic. 

“He’s alright?” you prodded, eyebrows drawing together. Steve glanced back the way Bucky had gone before nodding. 

“Yeah. … When he was—” 

“I don’t need to know,” you interrupted softly, looking back to the computer screen. “I don’t— I’m sorry for interrupting, but— I don’t need to know just yet. If… if he wants me to know… he’ll tell me. Won’t he?” you couldn’t help asking, lifting your eyes back to Steve’s again. 

He sighed quietly, nodding again. “Yeah. … He may never tell you.” 

“And if he doesn’t that’s his decision,” you said firmly, keeping your voice low. “I don’t… I don’t want to have any obligations on his shoulders. He’s keeping enough up there. This— it’s not pity, that’s not what this is,” you added hastily, “Just… I don’t want to be the reason he’s more stressed than he is already. He deserves better than that.” 

Steve sank down into the seat Bucky had vacated, eyeing you thoughtfully. He agreed, of course he did, Bucky was his closest friend, but there was something there he wasn’t saying. 

And just like you wouldn’t push with Bucky, you wouldn’t push to know with Steve. 

Maybe it was a little dangerous, knowing less. Alternatively, the less you knew, if you got captured, the better. Hypothetically. 

You looked down at your hands for a moment, debating on your next words. “... I do… want to know. Please don’t mistake this for willful ignorance. Just… I want him to be the one to tell me. And I want it to be on his terms.” 

“I understand,” Steve murmured with a small, tired smile. This close, the circles under his eyes were impossible to miss. He had to be exhausted. 

And you abruptly felt a shade too vulnerable, and decided a change of subject was in order. 

“Right. I’m gonna start looking through here, and I think Sam might’ve gotten lost or something whilst generator-hunting through the wilds. Why don’t you find him and find somewhere to lay down for at least a few hours? You look like something that crawled its way out of a grave—” 

“Thanks ever so.” 

“— and I have work to do, so to speak. Besides,” you added with a dry smile, “If I know him at all Bucky’s probably found a place with a bed you could utilize. God only knows he doesn’t use them, though he uses the room itself,” you chuckled. 

“My ears are burning.” 

You slowly spun in your chair, raising an eyebrow at Bucky and in as low a tone as you could manage, saying in a low British drawl, “Hello, Mister Bond.” 

He blinked.  _ Oh right. Those were the seventies. Not the forties. _ Steve gave you a similarly bewildered look, and you shook your head at the both of them. 

“For the love of all that’s holy if you two haven’t seen any of the James Bond movies, the original 007, we are going to have a problem here!” 

Blank stares answered you. 

“ _ UGH _ . Fine. Have it your way. As soon as we’re out of this clusterfuck we’re in, that is the first thing I’m getting both of you to watch. You’re both sitting down on my couch and I’m making popcorn and snacks and I will not hear any argument about it, so help me—” 

“I was thinking more of the… Monty Viper, was it..?” Bucky put in quietly, startling you into silence. It didn’t last. 

“Monty Python? You actually liked it?” you asked in surprise, before quickly scrambling to clarify. “I mean— not that I didn’t think you liked it, but you liked it?? As in you enjoyed it? You didn’t seem—” You broke off, hesitating. Oh well. You’d already dug your hole. Might as well lay in it. “... You didn’t seem like you’d enjoyed it, not really. I mean, I was hoping, but wasn’t sure. You know?” 

He slowly shook his head, eyebrows quirked up. “No, I’m pretty sure I liked it.” 

You grinned, just a little at first, then it spread. “That—that makes me happy,” you told him with a broad smile. “I was worried I was doing everything wrong. I mean—” 

“I know what you mean.” His voice was low, and his eyes showed amusement. That was good. You were seeing that more often lately. 

“Well, I’m not used to having a houseguest,” you explained sheepishly, glancing down at your hands for a moment. “Having one who doesn’t seem to want to be there is a little disconcerting.” 

“I didn’t mind being there.” 

“I’m glad,” you said honestly, beaming. “No, I really am.” 

“There’s a couple habitable bedrooms down that hall,” Sam said, walking back in. Strange. You thought he’d gone upstairs. 

Your face must have reflected your confusion, because Bucky spoke up, “Two of the rooms we passed on the way down the stairs lead back around in a circle and down again to the hallway down there.” He nodded at one of the two hallways leading out of this room, and you nodded in thanks. 

“I think a certain blonde action figure could use some sleep,” you said, looking pointedly at Steve. “Which way are those rooms, Sam? I don’t need rest, not yet, but for when I do—” 

“Down that hall, fourth door on the right leads to a set of bedrooms,” Sam responded promptly, waving for Steve to follow him. “There’s a couple bathrooms too, but I can’t promise any running water.” 

“Showers will wait then,” you said with a shrug, turning back to the computer screen and doing a search for files under a certain type. “Until that point, I intend to make myself useful. Because I actually can do something of use,” you added under your breath. You glanced over when Bucky sat back down in the chair Steve had left, and offered a smile. “This is going to be really boring,” you warned him. 

“I can wait,” he hummed, making himself comfortable. He said nothing more, and you kept your smile while you searched, appreciating the silent companionship he offered. After all, you liked comfortable quiet time too.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title, "Feel My Wrath, Sarcasm, and Extreme Self-Doubt and Self-Admonishment." Another fast chapter, since I've done a lot of writing in the last couple days.

You breathed softly, completely and utterly out cold with your head resting on your arms on the desk in front of you. The green cursor on the screen blinked endlessly, but went unnoticed. You’d been sleeping for close to half an hour now, and by this point, someone was mirroring your position on the desk across from you. The difference was that this person was awake.

Bucky lifted his head from his arms when Steve walked in, bleary-eyed and shuffling a hand through his hair. There was no good way of telling time down here and you’d stayed up a bit past your bedtime, whereas Steve had slept straight through his. Bucky had been awake the entire time, and he looked at Steve now with a small smile. Steve returned it, gaze sliding to you.

“How long’s she been out?” he asked in a low murmur. Bucky shrugged, sitting back in his chair and looking at you.

“Dunno. Thirty minutes or so.”

“Want me to wake her?”    
  
“No.” The answer was thoughtful, not curt. “She needs it.” You’d been awake longer than Bucky for once, the empty coffee mug next to you was a testament to that (upon finding a working coffee machine and non-spoiled coffee grounds, you’d proceeded to down three cups for the sake of staying awake and making yourself useful). And indeed, you’d found several useful pieces of information. You’d been able to identify certain codes as the stand-in names for weapons or tests. However, you’d still barely made a dent.

Steve nodded absently, looking back and forth between his friend and you. “... It’s okay to like her, you know,” he said softly, sinking into the seat next to Bucky, who nodded, eyes troubled.

“I know. Just…” He hesitated, glancing again at you as though to ensure you were still asleep. “... I’m not… safe to be around.” It was progress, admitting that to himself. He didn’t recognize that as such yet, but it was.

Steve frowned, looking back at you. Bucky wasn’t wrong. He could be dangerous, and it wasn’t his fault. And he was putting your interests first, which he also approved of. It was the right thing to do, especially if Steve was reading the situation correctly. But on the other hand, he wanted the two of you to be happy. And you handled him well, so to speak.

But Bucky wasn’t wrong.

Steve sighed quietly, reaching forward to lightly punch Bucky’s shoulder. “Jerk.”

“Punk.”

They watched you sleep in silence for a moment longer, before Bucky stood, silently shrugging off his jacket and walking around the desks to drape it over your shoulders. You mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘thanks,’ hunkering down just a little further under the jacket. Bucky’s eyes turned up at the corners, and his hand lingered on your shoulder for a moment before he sat back down with Steve.

“... Want some coffee?”

“Yes please.”

* * *

 

“Hmm…”

You squinted at the screen, the end of your pen rapidly tapping the notebook paper beside the keyboard. What kind of code name was ‘WSBJ17?’ It was an astronomical chance Steve would know so you hadn’t bothered asking-- he’d said once some time ago he didn’t know many of the code names SHIELD used for things.

From what you’d read, it was some type of versatile weapon that had undergone several years’ worth of testing, something that could interact (apparently at will) with other… ‘subjects.’

Those, you didn’t need to think too hard about to guess that they were people.

You’d gone through other note files like ‘QSMP52,’ and ‘SWMW52’ (you hazarded a guess that they were different versions of the same weapon, maybe M52 was some kind of gun?), and those had made about as much sense. But you’d move on to deciphering them and what they were once you’d done this one.

If you could make any progress, that is.

Finally, you growled in frustration, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your eyes. A quiet  _ thunk _  on the desk next to you had you looking, seeing a silver-colored arm setting a mug of steaming coffee down. Following the arm with your eyes, you met Bucky’s raised eyebrow, and you couldn’t help sulking slightly.

“They’re good at code names,” you muttered, with an added ‘thanks’ as you sipped the coffee. He’d learned-- this had the perfect amount of sugar in it.

“If they weren’t, everyone would be able to read them.”

“I’m not everyone,” you said, scowling. “And I should be able to figure these out. Up to now all of these acronyms mean something, and I can’t figure out by context what these ones mean. It’s dumb.”

He hid a smile, sitting down next to you. “Maybe you need a break.”

“I just slept at my desk for two hours, a break is the last thing I need,” you chuckled, sipping at your coffee. “... Thanks for the jacket earlier, by the way. That sucker is warm.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you lapsed into silence, simply appreciating each other’s company (and allowing you to take a break whether you wanted one or not). You glanced at the computer screen again, sorely tempted to resume your vital war with the wealth of files.

“No, no work right now.” Bucky’s voice was a low command. “You’ll come back to it and figure it out.”

“Not soon enough,” you mumbled rebelliously.

“Who’s hungry?” Steve’s voice came from the doorway, and both your head and Bucky’s whipped around.

You pulled a face. “Is it more of that ‘this stuff never spoils’ packaged crap?”

“Well, I meant there’s a market in a town near here,” he responded. “We found some euros in various places here, which means we have a budget.” 

“I’ll go,” you volunteered immediately. “I’m less likely to be recognized.”

“You also blend in like a bullseye,” Bucky said bluntly.

You scowled. “Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you have to say it. Besides, you’re worse than me. You’re a wanted man, Mister Barnes.”

Sam snorted, having come up behind Steve while you were talking. “She’s got you there.”

“But I’m capable of avoiding suspicion,” Bucky persisted.

Staring at him, you managed, “Have you ever met Europeans, Bucky?”

His face darkened, but not in a ‘you need to back off’ kind of way. “Many times. Usually at opposite ends of gun barrels.”

“Okay, dumb question,” you admitted, “But Europeans-- I’ve been to various places around Europe, just not Italy before-- they can pick out tourists pretty easily. I don’t doubt wherever you were staying before didn’t care, but this place? You’ll stick out just as badly as I will,” you objected, pulling your legs up onto the chair seat to sit crosslegged. “There’s no harm in me going, with or without a bodyguard so to speak. I look less identifiable than any of you right now, to… I dunno, helicopters, or security cameras, or whatever the hell else SHIELD is using--”

“Language.”

“-- Sorry. But my point still stands,” you said, crossing your arms.

Steve glanced between Sam and Bucky, seemingly looking for their input.

“... She’s got a point,” Sam said with a shrug. You noticed now he still had his backpack. Did he carry that everywhere when he was awake? He didn’t even dig around in it, ever. What was in that thing anyway? Oh wait. Didn’t he have wings back at the warehouse? Maybe they somehow folded into that.

Bucky was still staring at you, arms crossed much the way yours were. “... I don’t like this,” he finally said, and your face lit up in response. “... So I’m going with you.”

“Deal,” you said with a grin, holding out your hand to shake on it. His eyes held an amused glint as he did so, before they flicked to Steve again.

“What do we need?”

“Any kind of food,” he said immediately. “I think as far as necessities-- like toilet paper, for instance-- this place is well-stocked.”

“What about clothing? Anything we can raid?” you questioned, and Steve nodded.

“We found a few rooms that seemed to have been stocked for female workers, some of their things will probably fit you,” he replied, jerking his chin back down the hallway.

“Unless they’re uniforms,” you couldn’t help adding in a mutter.

“What?”

“They’ll stick out worse than me in casual clothes,” you complained.

“Dead giveaway,” Bucky agreed. You couldn’t help but think it might be literal in a worst case scenario. “Even if we’re spotted on any cameras, which is unlikely in a town as small as the one we drove through on the way here, seeing a SHIELD uniform from any given age is going to set off red flags everywhere. Especially if the logo is there,” he added after a moment, and you nodded in agreement.

Steve was scowling now. He probably felt a little outnumbered. “Well, when you take your next break, go look through them and see if you can find something,” he told you. “Sam and I are going to keep going through files.”

“What do I do?” Bucky asked.

“Keep playing security guard and make sure nobody gets hurt?” Sam suggested from the hallway, earning a slightly irate (but humored) look from Bucky.

“Are you telling me what I’ve been doing isn’t exactly that?”

“Boys, boys, don’t fight over me, learn to share,” you interjected, patting Bucky’s arm with your free hand while you sipped your coffee with your other. There was a moment of silence, before you heard above you a soft, sharp exhale that in anyone else might pass as a chuckle.

Sam and Steve exchanged a (slightly exasperated) glance before Steve shook his head at you.

“Hey, I can afford to be a little funny. We’re here, we’re safe, there’s no way they can find us right now, and humor is how I deal with my problems that I don’t want to deal with,” you said cheerfully, setting the coffee aside and leaning back over the keyboard to peer at the screen. “I’ll go through the clothes in a few minutes, then I’ll come find you, and Bucky and I can go to the market and find some food for me to cook for you all. Now, break time’s over, do what you like but keep the volume down, kids.”

“Kids??” Steve repeated incredulously.

“My bad, grandfathers. Definitely grandfathers. My mistake,” you amended with a smirk.

Sam made some kind of sound that might best be described as choking on air, and Steve sighed, rubbing his eyes. You could see the faintest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth behind his hand. “Just… keep looking for something useful,” he directed, cuffing Sam upside the head at the muffled snickers on his way out.

“Yes sir, can do,” you piped up, giving him a short wave before using your foot to nudge Bucky’s abandoned chair closer to him. It was a silent offer, one he was free to accept or refuse, and he knew it to be exactly that. It did make you smile more when he took the seat again, choosing to keep you company rather than care for his weapons again (which, as far as you were concerned, were as well cared-for as firearms or knives could be).

You opened your mouth, intending to say something conversational, and he inclined his head towards you slightly. Bucky was ready to listen to you.  _ You _ , specifically. He was willing to hear you, trusting whatever you had to say was worth both saying and listening to. And realizing that what you had to say was of little consequence, you closed your mouth and shook your head slightly with a mild smile.  _ It’s not important. _  You couldn’t even remember now what it was you meant to say.

He seemed to nod, without moving a muscle, and you turned back to the computer screen, ready to resume work for another hour or two. Or until you got too frustrated, and Bucky had to step in to keep you from putting your foot through the monitor.

Not that you'd  _ actually  _ do that. But it was tempting, twice now. You weren't prone to throwing things (like knives), but you  _ were _  prone to dismantling things that annoyed you just on principle. Bucky had an uncanny sense for when that was going to happen so far, and you couldn't help but wonder with a warm smile whether he was beginning to read you as well as you liked to think you could read him.

“Starting to figure things out?”

You looked over at him with a questioning noise, realizing you'd been smiling serenely whilst staring at the computer screen.  _ Oops _ .

“Ah, no, just thinking,” you said with a sheepish smile, returning your fingers to the keyboard to resume your job, so to speak.

“About?”

You gave him a slightly surprised, mostly thoughtful look, realizing this was the first time you could think of that he was asking you with legitimate interest what your thoughts were.

“Well,” you began before hesitating. Bucky waited patiently for you to find your words. You weren't going to lie to him, of course not, but there was always the chance that saying you were thinking of him might scare him off from spending time with you or something. And that… wouldn't kill you, but it would hurt for sure. Regardless, you would tell him the truth, you decided, gathering your courage. Those bottomless blue eyes weren't helping.  “... I was thinking about how much you've opened up, mostly to me, since Steve dropped you off at my place. And it made me happy-- still makes me happy-- that you trust me enough to do that,” you told him with a small smile, laying your hands in your lap.

“Hm.” His response wasn’t encouraging. But when you looked, his eyes were still on you, and he looked thoughtful. You found for a moment you couldn’t look away. He looked down first, only to nudge your half-full cup of coffee nearer to you as a gentle reminder it was still there.

He said nothing more, and neither did you, taking a sip of the quickly cooling coffee before returning to digging through digital archives and taking notes on anything that seemed promising.

You didn’t really mind. Silence with him was worth a few conversations with someone who enjoyed the sound of their own voice. It also meant more.

A few hours later, you sat back from the screen with a grunt, popping your back as you did so. “Oh, that feels a combination of very good and very  _ extremely _  not good,” you muttered half to yourself, reaching back to rub the tendon connecting your neck and shoulder. “I need to not sit like that. Why didn’t you stop me??” you demanded playfully, eyeing him.

“You seemed engrossed in your work. Hardly my place to interrupt,” he responded. He kept a perfectly straight face, but to you, that made the glimmer of humor in his eyes only more prominent.

“Okay, first of all, rude,” you said, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “And second of all, put that metal hand of yours to good use and give me a shoulder massage, I need it.”

You were teasing. Absolutely joking. But whether this was to call your bluff or because he took you seriously, Bucky rose and walked behind you without a word (though you’d have sworn that glint in his eye was ever more present) to lay his hands on your shoulders and begin rubbing his thumbs in small circles into the junction of your neck and shoulder. One was a bit colder than the other, but the specific placement of this pressure and the following pressure of his other fingers was magic.

Almost immediately, you slumped, surrendering to Bucky and his magic, calloused (in one case) hands. “You’ve done this before,” you murmured, eyelids drooping. “If I’d known you could do  _ this _  I’d have asked a long time ago.”

“Mm, maybe I should start charging you for this then,” he hummed. In anyone else it would have sounded like everything  _ except _  a joke-- in Bucky, you recognized it as the teasing sentence that it was.

“If you do I’ll kick you out.” Pointless, since you both weren’t even at your house anymore, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered here.

Bucky rumbled a sound that you attributed to a chuckle (though it was possible it was wishful thinking). You relaxed back a little more into his hands, rolling your head on your neck to one side or the other as needed so he could reach the sides of your neck and collarbones. It occurred to you in a hazy thought that you could count on one hand the number of people you’d allow with their hands this close to your neck, Steve among them, and now you realized Bucky was in their number as well. You hadn’t even thought twice about allowing him to do this, especially when one of his hands was essentially a weapon with a red star attached to his shoulder.

It could crush almost anything, you’d seen him do that before when you all needed to get somewhere and there was a metal door in your way, something Steve couldn’t get purchase on. And here it was gently making its way in circuits around your neck and shoulders, working out any and all tension-- even the locked-up muscles you didn’t know were there.

Several long, very relaxing minutes later, he stopped and smoothed your shirt back down before stepping away. You made a sound in the back of your throat that sounded like a complaint, and you heard another one of those rumbles. “Did I put this hand to good use?”

You had to take a second to put your head back in order, having almost fallen asleep during that little impromptu massage session. What had you two been talking about again?

_ Oh, right. _

“Yes. Yes you did,” you managed with a breathless chuckle. Damn, but that felt good. “... I need to go sort through the clothes that are in that one room Steve mentioned so we can go fetch food from the market.” You eyed him speculatively. “... I think the only way to make you look more like an American tourist instead of an American tourist who’s trying to blend in… is to steal Steve’s ball cap,” you said decisively. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to abduct that battered little baseball cap and tuck your hair up under it so it looks like you’ve washed it. Because it still needs washed.”

He stared at you, and you swore you could feel his eyebrow rising without needing to see it. You gave him an impish grin. “Look, either wash it or hide it because you’re killin' me, Smalls.”

Bucky gave you an odd look. “Smalls?”

“Look, we can watch that movie when we’re out of this mess. There’s so many movies I want you to see,” you laughed, only realizing when you were on your way down the hall that you’d just kind of  _ assumed _  that you’d see him again after all ‘this.’

However ‘this’ happened to end.

Assuming after ‘this’ you could go back to your daily life.

Those last two thoughts made your steps hesitate and you wound up nearly tripping over your own feet, smile abruptly gone. You wanted him to hang around. The constant being around people thing for the last several weeks may have had a part to play in your partial dependence on him and his dry opinions, plus his occasional playing along, but even in a world where you could choose exactly who you wanted to surround yourself with… you thought you’d still rather have Bucky Barnes in that small circle of people. He’d quickly become someone you valued, not just because Steve valued him, but for the person he was.

He’d opened up, and you liked what you were seeing. He was a decent guy and he was interesting, polite, and--

_ Great hell I’m sounding like I’m trying to find reasons to crush on him. Well, that’s over and done with. _  You crushed that train of thought, shaking your head hard. No. Off limits. Off limits even if you  _ did  _ happen to like him as anything more than a friend or companion, strictly platonic. Not happening. Not only would something  _ like that _  be awkward for Steve and Sam, as third and fourth wheels respectively, but it would turn into a train wreck. It was like getting into a relationship in a working environment. Just all-around a bad idea.

It was with this particular train of thought that you started digging through the clothes Steve thought would fit you with more force than was strictly necessary, trying to cement in your head that there was  _ no way _  anything more than a platonic relationship with Bucky Barnes was okay.

Besides which, this would probably turn out to be a passing crush. It was just because you’d spent so much time around him that you were thinking of things like this, it was a proven psychological occurrence. You’d been curious before about what Steve would be like as a partner and that had passed too-- just like this was  _ going to _  without  _ incident. _

You slammed the closet shut after locating a pair of black pants and a white top and a worried voice from behind you asked, “Did the closet do something in particular to offend you..?”

Whipping around, you discovered Steve standing in the doorway, sans ball cap. Maybe Bucky had been successful. Maybe that was why he’d come to talk to you.

“No,” you said with a smile that was the smallest bit forced. “Just thinking about stupid things I don’t want to think about.”

“Ah. Need to share?” he asked quietly, taking a seat on the bed.

_ Oh god no. That would be really bad. He’d tell Bucky and I’d feel like a fool. _

That was an awfully selfish point of view, wasn’t it? said a snide voice in the back of your head. It wasn’t your normal ‘I’m talking to myself’ voice. You didn’t like this voice.

_ Shut up, this isn’t your problem! _

“Erm.” Right, he was still waiting for an answer.

“Or not,” he said quickly, holding both hands up in a peace gesture. “You don’t have to. I just… thought I should offer. I know this whole thing is a lot to take in.”

“You’re right,” you agreed, “It is. But I can handle it. I mean, hey, I’ve been handling it so far, right?” you said with false cheer. When did it turn fake? Almost on cue, your smile dimmed a few levels, and you sank down onto the bed next to him. “This… is gonna sound really stupid.”  _ You don’t have to tell him. You can still back out. Say it’s nothing. He’s not going to push, he’s good that way. _

“... I think I may like Bucky more than I should let myself, or more than is good for either of us.”

_ Damn. _

Steve’s brow furrowed and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Like… how?”

_ Kick me while I’m down and make me explain myself, that’s cool. _  “Like, this feels like a college crush and obviously nothing can or _  will  _ happen while everyone’s on the run because not only will things get really awkward if he finds out but it’s also going to distract all of you, the important ones here, when you’re trying to stay alive and out of the hands of big bads! Plus, as far as I’m aware he’s been asleep for  _ years _  and is just trying to keep up with technology  _ and _  even if he did have interest in me there’s still doing couple things to worry about,” you said in exasperation. Not exasperation at Steve-- more at your own situation. And none of that even touched on Bucky’s nightmares because come on, talking about sleeping with the guy to his best friend was just a shade  _ too _  awkward, even for this kind of situation.

Leaning forward in much the same way as he had just done, you buried your head in your hands with a frustrated groan. An awkward pat on your back made you laugh, but your heart wasn’t really in it. “Thanks, Steve.”

“... When this is over,” he said slowly, seeming to think carefully over his words before saying them, “I don’t… I think… Ugh. Um-- you have my blessing, so to speak,” he said with a sheepish smile when you looked over at him.

“Well, that’s good to know,” you said with a hint of amusement. You didn’t plan on letting anything happen. That wouldn’t be good for anyone, you had a gut feeling. “... Okay, shoo. I need to get changed and you need to go get our budget. I’ll try to get stuff I know I can cook for everyone and hell knows none of you have any dietary restrictions.”

“Yes ma’am, and  _ language _ ,” he said with a flash of a grin, giving your shoulder a pat before he stood and was promptly shooed out of the room. You stayed sitting where you were for another long minute, just focusing on deep breaths and locking down every little bit of troublesome emotion you could find in the depths of your brain and its recent conclusions. It took longer than you expected, especially considering you were normally  _ good _  at this.

But you did it in the end, and started shedding your clothes so you could change into the ones you’d found. After all, you had a job to do now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who's still reading this. Means a lot to me, I've really put my heart and soul (what bits are left) into this. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling you guys are going to particularly like the end of this chapter. ;D

“Stay close,  _ honey _ , we’re supposed to be acting like a couple or whatever the two of them said,” you muttered through gritted teeth that hid behind an ‘adoring’ smile when you looked up at Bucky. He looked like he was going to be sick. “Oh come on, is a little outing with  _ me _ really that bad an experience?” 

You were mostly teasing him. But a tiny part of you was more than a little miffed about the fact he looked like he’d rather dig through puke than be here right now. 

“It’s not you,” he managed, and you could see his gloved left hand clenching reflexively. Knowing the very real risk of potentially breaking or dislocating fingers, you worked your own through his in an attempt to distract him. 

But then, you realized a little too late, if he was watching for any threats, he might not want to be distracted. 

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” you said after a moment, causing him to look down at you with no small amount of confusion. “I’m distracting you and trying to do a helpful thing and it’s turning out to not be very helpful at all,” you clarified, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows eased. 

“Just trying to be careful,” he murmured, but you did feel Bucky’s grip loosen slightly. It wouldn’t do to continuously be high-strung. All you really needed was to be wary-- which definitely wasn’t an issue with Bucky. You weren’t sure he knew how to turn it off. 

“I know. I appreciate it,” you told him with a smile, before returning your gaze to the street in front of you. There weren’t many people, not this early in the morning (it had turned out you’d been up most of the night). That might have been for the best. You greeted the vendors you stopped at in the precious little Italian you knew. Charades helped too. You’d always been good at that game, and it came in handy now. 

And aside from the ‘are these tourists?’ looks you got from several of them, there were no looks out of the ordinary that you could see.

“Oh, kiwis!!” 

Your attention was seized by the sight of kiwis in a basket at the next stall on this side of the street, and with a half-full produce bag in one hand and Bucky’s occupying the other, you practically dragged him over to inspect them. “We’re not leaving here without some of these,” you said in no uncertain terms to your companion, pointing at the kiwis in question. He nodded with the faintest smile, which made you smile in return. “Have you ever had these?” 

Bucky shook his head once. “Oh. Right. Availability of various things was probably limited in your time. Hm.” You glanced back to the kiwis and the smiling woman behind the stand, deciding that it was worth a tiny slice of your budget to get these. Of course, you were biased, but who cared? 

“Two please!” you chirped, holding up two fingers. You did notice how the woman’s eyes flickered to you, but her smile was mostly for Bucky, and you had to hide a grin. Yeah, in her position you’d have that reaction too. 

She chattered off some stream of Italian when she handed the fruits to him, which he gently deposited in the bag-- and when you tried to pay her the euros necessary, she refused them, gesturing to Bucky with that same grin and saying ‘bello’ repeatedly. Well, you knew what ‘bella’ meant, so ‘bello’ was probably in the same vein. You grinned, thanked her as you knew how, and led him away, doing your best not to laugh. 

“What are you laughing at?” 

His voice was low as the two of you walked out of the market, and you snorted in a most unladylike manner. “You really didn’t get it?” 

He shook his head again, and you patted his arm, noting the ridiculously solid feel of his arm and almost mistaking it for his metal one. 

“Well. Basically we got those kiwis for free because she thought you were cute,” you informed him with a wicked grin, elbowing his ribcage lightly. His incredulous look just made you laugh. 

“She thought I was cute… and gave us free food.” 

“Yup,” you confirmed. 

“... I’m… ‘cute?’ “ 

“Well… yeah,” you said, blaming the sunlight for the heat under your shirt collar. 

“Huh,” he mused, going quiet while you walked. You didn’t mind, though you had to consider the repercussions of him knowing your opinion on how he looked.

 _Oh, stop it. Don’t be stupid. You can accept that someone’s attractive without making a move, or hinting that they should make a move._ _Don’t read anything into this, there’s nothing to read._

Dead-set on that mentality, you focused instead on the beautiful landscape you passed. If you were one inclined to painting, this would be a lovely place to sit and paint, particularly in the evening when the light was different. 

“It’s peaceful here.” 

Bucky’s words echoed your thoughts, and you smiled up at him. “I was just thinking the same thing,” you agreed. “I could live here with no contact with civilization and be happy as a clam.” 

“So could I,” he remarked, lifting his head and inhaling deeply as the breeze swept past and around the two of you. 

“I feel like the fresh air would do you good,” you said carefully, not sure to what degree discussing his current mental state was okay. 

“It might,” he hummed, glancing down at you momentarily before taking the canvas bag from your hands to carry it for you.

“Oh-- you don’t have to do that--” 

“I want to.” That ended the discussion in its tracks, and you offered him a grateful smile before letting the matter go.

At some point during the walk back to the shelter, he shifted the bag to his left hand, leaving his right (on the side you were on) free. You glanced down at it, debating. So far… holding hands had been okay. Holding hands could be platonic. Right? Right. Decided now, you offered your left hand to him, palm-up and accompanied by raised eyebrows. This was another offer-- one he could accept or refuse, and by this point, he knew this about your offers. There was no penalty for turning it down.

Bucky saw the offer, and he accepted it, easily sliding his flesh-and-blood fingers between yours while you walked. You didn’t think you’d ever get over how different his hands were, despite the fact they both had the same capacity for touch. One was impossibly smooth, ridged, and continually cold. The other was calloused and warm. And yet both rippled and flexed as flesh should, so similar but with an impossible contrast. You ran your thumb over his knuckles now, feeling the rough and scarred skin beneath the pad of your finger. Scarring wasn’t surprising on Bucky. 

You did sometimes wonder, though, about the scars lacing the junction of his pectorals and his left arm. They looked painful and you didn’t know how he’d gotten them. You could guess, though. Steve had mentioned to you once how he lost Bucky, and then never again, but a fall like that? You were of the opinion that could create more than physical scars. 

You’d never yet had the nerve to ask about Bucky’s, though. And for now, holding his hand and knowing he appreciated your company was more than enough. 

You let go of each other’s hands when you entered the little house that served as the cover for the trapdoor for the base, as if on unspoken agreement. You at least felt no shame about it-- but confusing the other two, that would be mortifying, especially after your talk with Steve. He especially would be confused. 

Bucky probably had different reasons, and you didn’t ask. It wasn’t your business, really. 

“We’re back,” you called upon reaching the computer room, leaning in to peer down the main hallway. “Sam? Steve?” 

A faint ‘we’re coming’ reached your ears and you straightened, turning to Bucky with a smile and gesturing to the doorway that led to the kitchen. At least the refrigerator had been in working order when the generator was booted up. “Let’s go put some things away,” you suggested, stepping into the kitchen and starting to open a few cabinets. Maybe it was silly, but the idea of ‘playing house’ with the boys for a while-- as well as being useful to them, as you were the only one who had an inkling of how to work with these computers-- had you smiling. 

“Penny for your thoughts.” 

You glanced over your shoulder with a bright smile at Bucky, who held out the meat you’d purchased. You opened the fridge to put it away. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but a penny now is worth more than a penny from your time,” you teased gently, sinking back on your heels to place the wrapped chicken in the drawer of the refrigerator. 

“Is that you asking for my two cents?” 

The joke was unexpected, and you turned to look at him with a delighted expression. He was totally playing your sort of game.

“I suppose I am,” you said cheerfully, taking the garlic from him next. “What are you thinking, Mister Barnes?” 

His brows wrinkled a little, but not in a bad way. You’d associated this particular twitch with finding the correct vocabulary, and you were willing to wait. You didn’t have to wait long. 

“Hiding aside… I’m kind of… enjoying this,” he confessed in that low rumble you’d come to know as his normal ‘inside voice.’ 

“The ‘living out in the countryside’ this or the ‘playing house with other people who appreciate your company’ this?” you questioned, straightening up to place the herbs and spices the two of you had acquired on the top shelf of the fridge. 

“Both.” 

That answer surprised you, but you chose not to show it. You were enjoying both ‘this’s as well. “Both is good,” you hummed, taking the next food item from him. “If it helps, I’m enjoying this too.” 

“You are?” He didn’t sound terribly surprised. You supposed it might have been obvious. You hadn’t exactly been trying to hide it. 

“Well, yeah,” you told him, not turning around. “I can finally be useful to you guys, and I’m gonna cook for you all, and…” You trailed off, pausing before continuing. “... and it feels almost like having a little family,” you added, a little bit softer. You’d been living alone for a few years now, and even with the periodic friend staying over, or someone passing through town needed a place to crash, or playing host to a cousin or two, you were lonely. And this felt… fulfilling, almost. 

“... You have a family, though, don’t you?” 

His voice was quieter than usual, and you turned your head to show him a small smile, the kind that turned your eyes up at the corners. “Yeah. Just haven’t talked with them since before we up and ran,” you admitted, closing the refrigerator and straightening up to stretch. “Besides, I’ve got you guys now. And the three of you have got me. A little female influence in your lives wouldn’t go amiss,” you added with a playful wink, flattening the shopping bag and storing it in a cabinet for now. 

It occurred to you at about this moment that Bucky was showing an unusual amount of interest in you as a person. Well, ‘unusual’-- for someone else it was normal, if a little personal. For him, it was leaps and bounds. And like with the rest of his progress, it made you happy. 

“So you consider us your family?” 

You paused, realizing what you’d talked your way into. “Well… yeah,” you said just a little softer. “I mean… Especially recently, though that’s mostly due to factors outside of our control. Or at least mine,” you mused. “But even if those weren’t there… I would still enjoy your company, Bucky.” 

There was a moment of silence between the two of you, but it wasn’t a bad silence. You’d just turned to look at him in an attempt to gauge his reaction when you heard a pair of voices from the entrance to the kitchen, and you looked at Sam and Steve instead with a smile. 

“So what’re we eating for lunch?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. You laughed. These men were all bottomless pits, you’d have bet on it (if you had any money on you besides the change from shopping this morning). 

“Well, nothing until I can find a few things like a pan and pot, some plates probably, definitely utensils because I’m not making anything with just my hands,” you rattled off, beaming. You felt useful. You could cook for them, make them something useful, not just be this benign tumor on the little group that didn’t do anything for better or worse. “I was thinking we could cook that chicken, maybe over the string pasta we picked up and--” 

“You’re officially outside of my knowledge of food,” Sam interrupted, and you stuck your tongue out at him, making a rude noise. 

“Let me bask in the fact I know more about a subject than you do. And unless you want to eat raw chicken, you’d best can it, or I refuse to make you food,” you warned, turning back to the cabinets to start looking for things you could use as cookware. However, no sooner had you turned around than you found a sight that reminded you an awful lot of one a few weeks ago. Bucky stood behind you, holding a few plates in his hands. 

Just like when you’d gone to get plates for pizza. This wasn’t even the first time he’d done this, and you couldn’t bring yourself to be upset. He wanted to help. Right? That’s what that meant. 

“Thanks,” you said, beaming as you took the plates from him and set them on the counter. “If you could find me a saucepan and a big pot that would be ideal?” 

“I think I saw one in a cabinet next to the sink,” he said quietly, and you turned to check. Lo and behold, you found a perfect stock pot for boiling the pasta. 

In short order, you’d found the rest of what you needed to make everyone lunch, and Steve and Sam were sent to find something (or put something together) that could pass for a dining table just so they’d get out from under your feet. You’d practically run into or tripped over both at various points. Bucky, on the other hand (so to speak), was quite useful. You’d determined his skills with the knife to be top-notch and he was allowed to chop the basil, tomatoes, eggplant, and garlic, not necessarily in that order. 

It was when you were both covered in spots of sauce (you more so than Bucky) that you graced your cooking helper with the serving dish, since he could only burn one hand. You were liable to burn both. “And we’re done! If anyone touches that before the plates are on the table everyone in this bunker will die!” you hollered over your shoulder. You’d worked hard on that dinner, or lunch, or whatever, and damnit, they’d respect your table rules (the few there were). 

Bucky placed the full serving dish on the makeshift dining table that Steve had carted up from the mess hall to the main room. It seemed you were all in silent agreement about how staying in one location was safest. You hazarded a guess that Sam was the one to thank for remembering chairs, despite the fact you rolled over in your wheeled chair instead. 

“I go through all the effort of bringing up chairs you didn’t ask for and you go and--” 

“I can’t sit still, Samantha, we all know this,” you interrupted. 

“My name is--” 

“Samwise, yes, we know.” 

“Make her stop,” he complained to Steve, who was doing a phenomenally bad job at hiding a smile. 

“I don’t know, I kind of want to see how far she can take this.” 

“As far as necessary, dear Steven,” you said pleasantly, smirking at Bucky’s muffled chuckle. Victory was yours. “Besides which, I made you all food with my lovely assistant, who could stand to be wearing a Vegas showgirl outfit but sadly is not. You’re not allowed to argue with me, Samuel,” you told him, taking the first bite of your food. “... Damn, we did good.” 

“You did most of the cooking,” Bucky pointed out quietly, though he did hum softly in appreciation at the first bite. You were glad. It would be a little awkward if he didn't like it. 

Pretty awkward if any of them didn't like it actually, you reflected as you glanced at the reactions of the other two. Nearly a third of their respective plates were already empty, so you supposed that was a good thing. 

It also happened to be a good thing that there was enough for seconds for everyone.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky still held his fork wrong. You wrestled with yourself for a moment before laying down your own and reaching over, delicately re-settling his fingers around his fork in the same way one would hold a pencil. You’d never seen how he held a pencil, but… you thought he might want to get better, on more than one front. And to you this was a good little thing to work on. 

Little. Small steps. It wasn’t a huge leap into a chasm with hungry tigers at the bottom. 

His fingers were pliable, and he allowed you to change his grip on the utensil without complaint. It might have been a strange thing to do for someone, but again, you wanted to help him. 

You could feel his eyes on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet them right now, returning your gaze back to your food and resuming your meal. It escaped your notice that Steve and Sam had both paused in their respective meals before picking back up when Bucky did, without a word. And you privately decided that dedicated eating without a running conversation counted as a comfortable silence. 

The boys finished their second plates around the same time you finished your first plate, and you sat back with your water cup, smiling slightly. It might be weird in a restaurant setting, watching someone eat while you weren’t, but here? You were just glad that they liked what you and Bucky had put together. Well, mostly you. But he definitely helped move the process along. And the silence (save for the sounds of eating) was one of the best compliments to your cooking that they could have offered. 

“You cooked and got ingredients, we’ll clean up,” Steve said as you both stood at the same time, once all dishes were empty. 

“No, you won’t,” you corrected, reaching out to take his plate from him. Except that he didn’t let it go. “As much as I adore you Stevie I trust myself with a stack of plates more than I trust you guys. Besides, you have more files to go through. Computer work goes faster than on-paper stuff,” you added, giving a little tug to claim the plate. “Go on, I don’t mind. Really.” 

“But that’s not fair to you,” he objected. You smiled at him. He had the strongest ‘not-fair’ reaction of anyone you’d ever met, and it was something you could understand in part because you had one too-- although, slightly less passionate than his. 

“Sure it is. You guys have been doing the hard work-- Bucky and I went on a nice morning stroll. Either go work or go take a walk, you both deserve it. I don’t mind doing the dishes.” That wasn’t strictly  _ true _ but it was a nice little mindless task that was  _ familiar _ because it reminded you a little of home. It contributed in a way to your make-believe playing house situation. 

“... We get them next time,” Steve said in a voice approaching a warning tone, and you nodded cheerfully. He wouldn’t, probably, but you could agree with him for now. 

“Sure thing. That goes for you too, Sam-- you guys go get some fresh countryside air, away from the city.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Sam chuckled, tapping Steve’s arm with the back of his knuckles and starting towards the bunker stairs. Steve hesitated another moment before following him. 

You were starting to realize just how much they both were trusting both you and Bucky, letting you be alone with each other. And you were alone with each other because he hadn’t followed the other two men up the stairs, instead choosing to compile the plates on the table with hardly any sound. You smiled at him, taking the small stack he passed you without a word. 

Doing the dishes was a quiet affair-- not that you minded. You washed a dish with the soap that was still here: under the water, scrub, under the water, scrub, under the water one last time before you handed it to Bucky, who was waiting by with a hand towel to dry the plates and put them away. The pot was a little more work but the process went the same. You supposed that if either of you had felt the pressure to talk, that might just make things more awkward. 

Not that they were awkward right now. They weren’t. Things were comfortable right now, and you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

“What are you thinking?” 

The question was soft, almost lost in the sound of the sink running. You rinsed your hands one last time before cutting it off, choosing your words. 

“I’m… not sure,” you admitted. You were hedging just a bit, but you’d have to give him a believable answer eventually. Preferably also a true one. “It’s… kind of complicated.” 

“Complicated doesn’t scare me.” Bucky dried the pot you’d just handed him, eyes on it instead of you. In a way you were glad. You weren’t sure you could hide anything from the searching gaze he usually had when he looked at you. 

“Nor me,” you agreed quietly. “It’s… I’m enjoying this. I know I said that earlier, but it’s still true,” you said with a small shrug, taking the pot from him to stow it in the cabinet it had been in before you found it. “The whole… ‘playing house’ thing, you know? I just wish it was a little closer to civilization,” you added with a wry smile. 

He offered a matching one, and yours transitioned to a grin. You liked when he smiled. It pushed his eyes up at the corners, making them crinkle the smallest bit, and it made his eyes sparkle a little. Sometimes his eyes were dull. You thought he deserved to smile more than he did.

“... When was the last time you slept?” you asked, starting to reach before hesitating, then reaching the rest of the way to gently run the pads of your index and middle fingers over the dark circles beneath his eyes. His eyes were still on you, and he didn’t make a move to stop you. He didn’t flinch, either, which gave you the warm fuzzies on a low scale. 

“Two days.”

“Two days ago??” You were (understandably) a little taken aback. He should have been dragging by now. The fact that he wasn’t was a bit of a mystery to you. 

“Two days,” he confirmed, one hand coming up to gently catch yours. Bucky did not, however, release it. 

“You need sleep,” you told him in a tone that brooked no argument. You didn’t have a great idea of what was waiting for him in dreamland. But you’d seen the effects on him. They weren’t good. And they weren’t anything you could help with at the best of times.

“I do,” he agreed.

You sighed, running your thumb over his knuckles. You both knew nightmares were waiting for him. You still hadn’t asked about them. It wasn’t your place. “Just a nap or something, then,” you offered, eyebrows pulling together. “Something… shorter. You’re less likely to dream.” 

“Something short,” he hummed, nodding once. You didn’t miss how he was agreeing with you on aspects of his well being. Maybe he was starting to trust you with his general health. 

“Just an hour or three. A nap will at least do you some good,” you sighed. You wished now more than ever that you could take his nightmares from him. You weren’t fool enough to want to take them on for him, but if it meant he could sleep soundly for once… you would definitely consider it. “I’ll see you in a couple hours, okay? I’ll be back at my work desk when you wake up, if you need me,” you told Bucky in an encouraging tone. 

He leaned in then, brushing his lips against your cheek and releasing your hand upon straightening up. “Thank you,” he murmured, and you watched him leave down the hallway. For your part, you were attempting to regain functionality. Like remembering to breathe, that was a good idea. Probably. 

_ Oh. _

Well. Things may have just gotten complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone for hanging with this. I'm super stoked for the chapters to come, you guys are gonna love it! Or, you know. So I hope. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of things get addressed in this chapter, instead of just glossed over as we have a tendency to do in everyday life! I just polished up Chapter 13 and got started on 14, which (since I finished a chapter) means I upload a chapter for you all! Lots of emotion in this one.
> 
> Now, my wonderful go-to proofreader has had a lot on her plate lately, and I don't want to bother her overmuch. That said, I'm on the hunt for an additional proofreader who can also analyze the actual events on the page, not JUST catch typos. :) Native English speaker preferred, must have easy access to email and/or google docs. Preferably running on EST, but not required. 
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!
> 
> UPDATE: Did I mention that a proofreader would have access to reading the entirety of what's left of the story? Including any surprises or twists I saw fit to add.

The ceiling in your room has 144 ceiling tiles. 

You know this because you’ve tried counting them-- three times-- in a vain attempt to make yourself tired so you could sleep. 

The walls are made of four panels on all sides. 

The tile underfoot is cold when you swing your legs out of bed. You knew it would be. It’s always cool down here, which is a nice change from the unrelenting heat during the middle of the day aboveground. 

There’s three lightbulbs in the room: one above your bed, one above your closet, and one above the door. 

You didn’t think getting a glass of water would help much. It was a miracle the water ran clear here in the first place, really. But you were willing to try it. And if  _ that _ didn’t work you might as well stay awake and try to get some work done. Figure out what those acronyms mean. 

There are two hinges on the inside of your door, and only one of them squeaks. 

The pad of your footfalls are quiet as you make your way to the kitchen, but apparently just not quiet enough. You’re halfway down the hall (you were the furthest from the point of entry, per the boys’ insistence) when the door right next to you opens soundlessly, making you jump a little. 

“Can’t sleep?” 

Bucky’s voice is a rumble, more of a vibration than any actual sound. Sam and Steve will probably be sleeping by now, and neither of you wants to deprive them of their sleep. 

“Yeah,” you manage quietly, not meeting his eyes. You’ve been over the slightest scrape of his stubble and lips against your cheek in your mind a thousand times since this afternoon. Were you overreacting? Was it strictly platonic? No, that wasn’t really platonic. Not in a way you’d ever describe, anyway. Did  _ he _ mean anything by it? What if it didn’t mean anything to him? No, he didn’t do something without there being a meaning or a purpose behind it, he conserved energy with the best of them. He thought about things beforehand. Everything, it seemed. So he had to have thought about that cheek kiss. But what if-- 

“____.” 

Your head jerked up when he said your name, finding yourself staring straight into an arresting dark blue gaze. “Yes?” 

“Breathe.” 

You gave him a confused look. You were spiraling. How did he know? He was observant, yeah, you knew this, but more so than you gave him credit for? Quite possibly. And why the hell were you thinking so damn much about this? It was just a cheek kiss. That’s all. That was all it meant. Just a cheek kiss. 

“I’m breathing,” you muttered, starting for the kitchen again. He fell into step with you, also barefoot. 

“Keep doing it,” he responded softly. “... You were panicking.” At your confused look, he reached up to tap his ear. “I could hear.” He didn’t seem sheepish, exactly, but similar to that if you had to guess. 

“... I was thinking about earlier,” you offered at last, looking at your feet until you reached the kitchen. He didn’t respond for a long minute, and you began to worry that you shouldn’t have mentioned it. 

But it was the truth. Bucky deserved the truth, didn’t he? 

“Was it… bad?” His voice was uncertain, and it wasn’t a tone you were used to hearing with him. But he trusted you enough to show this side, so you were more than happy to listen. It wasn’t like you were going to avoid him. That was just childish. 

“No!” you were quick to reassure him. It almost came out too loud. “No, it wasn’t bad. It was sweet,” you told him with a warm smile, filling a glass with tap water and taking a sip. Water probably wouldn’t help you sleep, but… you weren’t going to chicken out of a conversation with him by using such a trivial excuse as sleep. Who needed it, aside from Bucky? 

You wanted to chicken out. But he deserved better than that from you. All three of them did, really, though the idea of having a conversation like this with Bucky was making your heart race. Anxiety was a bitch. 

“... Does that mean I can do it again sometime?” On anyone else you would call his current tone of voice timid. But… you weren’t sure if it was something you’d been able to associate with Bucky so far. This was a new emotion to see. 

“... If you want,” you murmured, staring down into your glass. “I mean-- … I’d like it.” 

In your peripheral vision, you saw him nod once or twice, digesting the information. You did briefly wonder what it would be you’d be getting into with him. But… you thought that maybe you both could use the company of the other. 

No. Wait. 

You shook your head once, hard, taking a sharp breath in. Getting into a relationship-- or whatever this might turn out to be-- was a bad idea. It was a bad idea that had nothing but other bad ideas written all over it. _ It’s just a crush. It’s just because he’s starting to open up to you. Don’t be stupid. This will make things awkward for Steve and Sam, besides. And even if something does develop it would be better to wait until ‘this’ is over. _ God, your inner voice was kind of a righteous bitch. 

But it was also a  _ correct _ righteous bitch. 

“Wait-- stop,” you murmured, pinching the bridge of your nose and trying to take a steadying breath. You didn’t have to see his eyes to feel his honest confusion. And in Bucky’s defense, you were kind of sending a lot of confusing signals. “I-- oh boy. Bear with me,” you muttered, taking another sip of water with slightly trembling hands before setting the glass down and looking him in the eyes. He deserved that much, at least. The idea of this kind of ‘adult’ conversation was a scary one. But you would face it head-on, because he deserved better. 

“I would… I would like that. I’d like that a lot,” you said honestly. Was it normally this warm in here? “But I’m also… concerned… that whatever that would lead to might make things difficult for both Steve and Sam. And I’m worried I would end up distracting you from the things you’re trying to do at any given time-- like if something like the warehouse happens again, if you’re worried about me, you’re not going to be watching your own ass.” You were gonna sound really selfish if this was your only other reason, you realized. Time to keep going and cut open a little more of your soul for him to see. “Besides…”

Soon there’d be no more room left to cut, and you’d be completely bare. That was a terrifying concept to you. But… also a warm one. If it was Bucky, you thought it might be okay. You’d slice your facades and fears into layers if he decided he wanted to see you as you were. He wasn’t the type to judge you based on what you knew to be true about yourself.

“... Besides which... “ You hesitated. There was no good way to voice this concern. “... What if this doesn’t all turn out okay?” There. It was out. But that also meant it was a problem. A problem, just like you were for them. Your breath hitched. This couldn’t happen now. This was the most inopportune moment. Stop.  _ Stop. _ “No. Stop spiraling. Things will turn out one way or another.” You were muttering to yourself now, fingers starting to thread through the hair on the sides of your head as though to hold your skull together. Nobody was going to fall behind or get captured. Nobody would get tortured in a high-tech torture dungeon. Nobody was going to die. They couldn’t. They  _ couldn’t. _ That wasn’t allowed. None of you would  _ let _ that happen. They would all be fine, all three of them. They’d be  _ fine. _ “Stop stop stop. Things will be okay. You’ll see. They’ll be okay.” 

You weren’t sure who you were talking to at this point. This wasn’t healthy. This couldn’t happen you couldn’t let it happen. You were healthy and safe and so were the three people you were on the run with. There was nothing to panic about right now. Absolutely, positively nothing to worry about--

A set of very cold fingers gently worked their way between your hand and your hair on one side, once again offering themselves as an alternative to cling to in lieu of your hair. And you clung to Bucky’s hand like it was your lifeline, as you had so many times before. That was healthier. And you waited. He waited with you. You waited until your breathing slowed down a little, and you could pry open your eyes instead of having them screwed shut. 

“Breathe,” he reminded you in a very low voice. You did. You tried. In count of four. Hold for four. Out count of five. Focus on the air flowing in and out of your lungs. Feel your rib cage expanding with them. 

“... I remember… when I was in college,” you began haltingly, “I told myself that ‘it’s okay’ or ‘it will be okay’ was never an option. ‘Fuck it’ got things done. ‘Fuck it’ implies you accept whatever the end result will be, regardless of whether it’s for better or worse. ‘It’s going to be okay’ says you can only see a positive end result. And--” You broke off, taking a deep, shaky breath. You still couldn’t meet his eyes. “-- and I’ve been… I’ve been good with this, for so long. I thought-- I thought I was better. I thought I was past this. Sorry. I thought--” 

“Don’t apologize.” His voice was soft, but had steely determination. You looked up at him now, feeling quite small. “This isn’t something you need to apologize for.” 

“Maybe not, but I’m gonna apologize anyway,” you told him with a trembling smile. “I-- this feels just like high school. All-- all panic attacks and hyperventilating.” 

“Sounds rough.” 

“A little,” you conceded with a small nod, scrubbing at your eyes. Why were they watering still? You were  _ fine _ . You were all fine, Steve and Sam were still sleeping like they needed to be (or one of them was in one of the rooms with the files), Bucky was right here, and you were all in good health. “... I’d say that explosion was rougher, though.” 

He hummed, and you risked a glance up to see his eyes turning up at the corners. A sort of chuckle, then. He agreed with you. But his eyes still seemed troubled, and your smile faded. “What’s wrong?” 

“... Does the idea of talking with me cause that much distress..?” he finally asked in a low voice. Without him needing to move a muscle, you could feel him starting to pull back. Withdraw. It was in his eyes. 

Without thinking, you tangled your fingers loosely in his shirt, starting to scowl. Grounding him. “No. It’s not you. And I’m not gonna say ‘it’s not you it’s me,’ as true as it is, because it’s a combination of different factors and not one of those factors causing stress is you,” you told him bluntly, glancing down at your hand before patting his shirt flat over his chest again. Oops. Didn’t mean to wrinkle it. 

“What is it then?” 

You glanced over your shoulder at the wheeled chairs in the main office area, jerking your head in their direction before walking to sit. Sitting was more comfortable on your legs right now. It also gave you a few more precious seconds to decide how to answer. 

You were a little scared of what this conversation might mean. But some things were more important than fear. 

“It’s… a bunch of little things that have all piled up,” you murmured, curling up in your chair and using his lap as a footrest when he sat down. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have dared do this. Now you did it without a second thought, and he rested his hand on your ankles in a comfortable manner when you did. “Like Steve’s driving on the way here.” 

“He’s never had a license,” Bucky pointed out, and you paused before realizing just how much sense that made. He had a motorcycle, you knew that. But you’d never been in a car with him before that terrifying ride in the Volkswagen. 

“That… is a good point. But it is one of the little things,” you added with a hint of a smile. 

“What’s another?” 

“Worrying about if leaving the bunker put us in danger,” you responded softly. “More specifically, you. You’re… easier to identify.” He nodded slightly in agreement. “Another is trying to be consistently useful. … But that’s one of the bigger things,” you admitted. 

“Useful?” 

“I don’t want to slow you guys down. I was brought with just because the three of you couldn’t in good conscience leave me. So I’m trying to be useful.” 

“You’ve succeeded,” he murmured, patting your ankles. You smiled at him. From Bucky, it wasn’t just mindless encouragement. There was a sincerity to everything he said that you couldn’t help but appreciate. And you wondered for a moment if that was one reason why you liked talking with him so much. 

“Is there anything else bothering you..?” 

That made you look fully at him, and you gave him a slightly quirked smile. “That sounds like an offer of help, Mister Barnes,” you said dryly. “As in, the ‘I’m a fixer that’s how I deal with problems’ kind of offer. Am I wrong?” 

“No,” he said quietly, smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Well, other than bringing me either coffee or tea at various points, I don’t believe there’s much more you can do to help. Just keep doing what you’re doing and don’t wait around corners to startle me,” you said playfully, jerking a thumb back at the hallway.

“I’ll do my best.” 

“That said…” You paused, collecting your thoughts. You’d been subconsciously avoiding the reason this conversation started in the first place. “... I’d like more cheek kisses, even if cheek kisses is all it turns out to be,” you told him, meeting his gaze squarely. He deserved a straight answer and you hadn’t given him one yet. “But I’m a little worried about how being around that might affect Steve and Sam. It could distract them, and I could distract you, and I feel like distractions are something none of us really need.” 

“You’re a good distraction.” 

“Am not and you know it,” you said warningly, but the smile hovering at the edges of your lips ruined the effect. “But I also don’t know how long all this will take.” The word ‘this’ was accompanied by an encompassing gesture. “The whole ‘on the run’ thing. You know. This. And I think… assuming, of course, that we wanted to pursue cheek kisses--” Yes, that was what you were going with for now. Bucky just looked amused at the prospect, you couldn’t blame him. “-- I think it would be best to wait until this is concluded. However it ends,” you added in a low murmur. 

That doubt that everything really would be okay was still lingering. And you thought if you pretended it wasn’t there, pretended you couldn’t see it, it would go away-- at least for tonight. Tomorrow you could face it, deal with it. Not right now. This was not one of those times. And you both knew it. 

“I think you’re right.” That wasn’t surprising, and you gave him a wan smile. 

“I should hope so. I tend to try and lean towards the practical.” 

“I can appreciate that.” 

“I’m glad,” you hummed, meaning it. Your eyes flicked to his hands, resting on his thighs, and you debated for a moment before reaching out to take one with both of yours, running your thumbs over the metal joints that you’d associated as his knuckles. Bucky ever-so-gently squeezed your fingers, and you couldn’t help but admire the minute control he had over his grip on a mechanical arm. The fact he could feel with it was cool enough all by itself. This was another layer to the complexity. “... I like this,” you confessed quietly, freeing one hand to trail your fingers over the ridges marking the slightest of gaps between the strips of metal. You could feel the shiver that raced across his shoulders when you did so. 

“... Why?” 

“Because it’s a part of you,” you said without thinking, eyes flicking up as you realized what you’d said. It was absolutely true, and it was your first reason. But you felt the need now to justify it. “I mean-- it’s  _ fascinating. _ The way it’s constructed. The fact that you have this much control, such tiny tiny movements with something that you weren’t born with-- I admire that,” you told him. “And you’ve said it’s killed people. I can acknowledge that, accept it, and also accept the fact that while you could easily use it to, say, hurt me, you haven’t. You won’t. And your self-control, let’s be honest here, is probably better than mine,” you added with a shrug, continuing to trace the gaps in the metal.

If you looked, you could see the parts underneath the surface glinting as he moved his hand, made a fist, flexed the muscle of his forearm. It occurred to you now he was doing it because you were looking so closely. Showing you what it contained, most likely. Just because he knew you were interested in it. 

And you decided-- quietly, almost before you realized you’d done it-- that one way or another you would change his view on his arm. Most likely it was something he hadn’t volunteered for. And that was fine. You knew as well as anyone how hard it was to accept something you hadn’t wanted that affected your life so deeply, even though you didn’t know exactly what Bucky had gone through. But you would get him to accept it, as best you knew how. 

You glanced up when he pulled his flesh-and-blood hand from your grasp, lifting it before hesitating, then cupping your cheek. He didn’t go in for a kiss-- you didn’t expect him to, and frankly you were glad he didn’t if only because the two of you (but mostly you) had just gotten through the discussion and decided you wanted to wait-- but you appreciated the warmth, humming quietly and leaning your cheek against his calloused fingers. It felt nice, and you let your eyes drift shut. You trusted him. You didn’t trust many people. But you trusted Bucky. 

He was worth trusting, you thought. And besides, maybe having people who weren’t his oldest friend trust and believe in him would do him some good. It helped that you  _ wanted _ to trust him. 

“You should get some sleep.” 

Opening your eyes, you fixed him with a dry look. “You don’t get to lecture me about getting enough sleep,” you told him with a hint of a smile playing around the corners of your mouth. But you were serious. Granted, you knew why Bucky didn’t get a lot of sleep. You didn’t know if he knew you knew, and you wouldn’t bring it up if he didn’t first. But the long and short of it was that he needed more sleep than he was getting, and you didn’t know any quick home remedies to help him get the rest he needed. 

The look he returned was… a little bit sad, you thought, and your smile faded. You reached out slowly-- so slowly, you didn’t want to make him flinch-- mirrored his position, curving your palm around his cheek and rubbing your thumb over his right cheekbone. The stubble pricked at your fingers, and you observed that he’d let it get a little bit long. 

“Tell me how I can help.” Your words, meant to sound like an instruction, came out as more of a plea than anything else. You hated the fact he was struggling with something so basic as getting rest, and you hated it because you couldn’t help him. 

You were a fixer too. You could sit and listen and sympathize with the best, but your knee-jerk reaction with problems others had was to fix the problem for them. 

And you couldn’t fix Bucky’s. 

“You can’t.” His voice was low, almost free of inflection. 

“There’s got to be a way,” you persisted. You didn’t doubt he knew you knew now. You’d already admitted you knew he had trouble sleeping. Why else would you think he need help? 

Maybe he didn’t want the help. 

And that hurt, just a little bit. The idea that he didn’t want your help wasn’t a nice one, but it was one that needed considered. But by the look of his eyes right now, it wasn’t that he didn’t  _ want _ your help. 

“It’s not safe for you.” 

And those five words shut down your reply in your throat. He knew you knew about his nightmares, and he wasn’t denying them to you or trying to hide them from you. But he’d also just stated what you knew to be true when you’d been woken up by one of his nightmares before all four of you were on the run. It wasn’t safe to try and help him, not with something as serious as these. 

You dropped your hand and your gaze to your lap, trying to think of something you could offer that might help in some way. A pearl of wisdom (there was nothing you knew to help that he didn’t already know as well). A suggestion (he’d probably considered all the same ones you had). A few words of comfort (meaningless, in the end, they didn’t help anyone and he didn’t want comfort). But you could come up with little, and you wound up rolling your chair closer to him to lean against his arm and rest your head on your shoulder. Not an invitation this time, but silent comfort you thought you could offer safely. You had the feeling (based on his reaction to it being the topic of conversation) that after his arm was…  _ installed _ that he didn’t have the comfort of physical touch very often. So this was the best you could offer right now. His metal arm was cold, but with you leaning against it, the outside warmed quickly. 

It was a few minutes before he quietly sighed, moving said arm around you so you were tucked against his side instead, which was far warmer. The bunker got cool at night. You snuggled against him gratefully, but stayed awake. You didn’t think you’d be getting much sleep if you went back to your bed anyway, and the both of you knew that he wouldn’t. 

Besides, when morning came and you both straightened up, working the kinks out of your necks and backs, both of you also knew how to make coffee, which almost made up for staying up all night. 

Almost. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this?! Another chapter already?! Well buckle up buttercups because I did about twenty pages of writing today and seeing as I finished another chapter, by my logic, I probably should post another chapter, am I right? 
> 
> I am really enjoying seeing you guys enjoying the fic itself, and the comments and kudos you all leave really lift my spirits when I'm in a writing funk. Thanks to everyone for hanging in there!

You did kind of regret not at least taking a nap when you tackled the files in the computer again that morning, glaring at the screen. Bucky had walked to his room a while ago, possibly to try and nap. You wouldn’t have blamed him. 

You, on the other hand, were determined to keep up some kind of work ethic, for better or for worse. 

And WSBJ17 still held you stationary. The rest of the files you’d mostly been able to debunk as actual inanimate weapons. A few more had probably been animals, based on the ‘test results.’ But this file (as well as eight or nine others) was unclear on the nature of the subject. And in order to discount these you had to figure out whether they were alive and an animal, or some inanimate weapon like a gun, or a rocket launcher, or a lightsaber. 

You huffed, sitting back in your seat and sipping at your coffee. You’d tried anagrams, code switching (what little you knew), trying to see if the numbers corresponded to other letters, and moving down the alphabet a few letters, to no avail. And you couldn’t go anywhere until you worked this out. 

_ Ugh. Maybe the letters mean something to Steve. _

“Steeeeve,” you called, voice adopting something similar to a whine so he’d know it wasn’t urgent. Well, it  _ was _ urgent, just not the life-threatening kind of urgent. It was a few moments before he poked his head into the main room, one eyebrow raised. 

“Yes?” 

“Come tell me if this code means anything to you,” you instructed, gesturing to the computer screen and the chain of characters associated with one particular weapon. “WSBJ17. Mean anything?” 

He frowned, as though the code struck a chord in his memory. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” 

You sighed. “I can’t search SHIELD’s database for it because this is the only log for this weapon I can come up with. There’s also a bunch of articles on some assassinations in high-up places, though I can’t tell if that’s the weapon or if the weapon is a person and--” You broke off, realizing something that you definitely should have realized sooner. Steve frowned at you. 

“What is it?” 

“... I don’t know why I didn’t fucking notice--” 

“Language.” 

“--shut up for a second I’m talking. I haven’t really told you because it didn’t really register and you haven’t mentioned it so either you know or you haven’t realized either-- some of these ‘weapons’ are  _ people. _ ” 

His frown deepened, and you knew why. “... SHIELD was--” 

“Carrying out experiments and testing on human subjects,” you finished softly, cradling your head in your hands. You’d been registering the information like it was just some kind of data, not from a compassionate point of view, like you had just now seen it as. You hadn’t told Steve because it hadn’t occurred to you. SHIELD was a group comprised of the good guys-- the guys backing up the Avengers. 

And they were carrying out testing on  _ people. _ And by the look on his face now, the thought hadn’t occurred to Steve, either. He’d been buried in files and information, of course it didn’t occur to him, you couldn’t blame him for this. You were the one who hadn’t even  _ noticed. _

“Steve… why would SHIELD be doing these kind of experiments..?” you asked softly, looking up at him. “This-- this is something the bad guys do. I thought SHIELD were the good guys.”

“They’re supposed to be.” Steve’s voice was tight, so was his expression. His mouth had flattened into a thin line. “... How old would you say these computers are?” 

“1990 probably,” you responded quietly. You knew the ramifications of that answer. 

SHIELD had been around since the forties, Steve had mentioned that offhandedly earlier. And these reports were on computers that were nearly thirty years old. 

Thirty years of experiments. 

Of experiments done on  _ people _ . Civilians, possibly. 

And that’s when something else occurred to you. 

“... Steve... “ 

“Yes..?” 

This was what HYDRA had been doing, Steve had told you in months past when the two of you spent time together. 

“... Bucky… Bucky was a HYDRA experiment, wasn’t he..?” 

You’d suspected. A whisper of a thought, maybe. But now you needed confirmation. Because some things were starting to click-- aside from SHIELD being rotten from the inside out. 

“... … Yes.” 

And that one answer made everything slide into place. You buried your face in your shaking hands, taking an unsteady breath. “... I know what this code is.” 

“What is it?” Steve probably could already tell, if your questions hadn’t clued him in. 

“Winter Soldier, Barnes, James. Born 1917, isn’t that right?” 

“Yes.” The word seemed almost devoid of emotion, and you could hear Steve drop into the seat next to you. The seat Bucky had occupied until a couple hours ago. 

“... Why would SHIELD have HYDRA records..? They wouldn’t have worked together, right? Goals and objectives were opposites?” You were almost pleading now. There was ‘knowing thine enemy,’ and there was ‘following suit.’

You hoped like hell this wasn’t part of the latter, but it was starting to seem distressingly likely. SHIELD hadn’t been able to lay their hands on Bucky to your knowledge so far. They wouldn’t have made these. 

“Hacking, maybe. Double agents.” Steve’s voice was slightly muffled, as though he had adopted the same position as you had. You straightened up. You couldn’t surrender to shock right now. There was work to do and things to figure out. 

Like why SHIELD had HYDRA records in a bunker in the middle of nowhere in Europe. 

“But  _ why. _ That would explain the how,” you persisted, locking away your emotions. You had a job to do. That came first. Bucky and Steve were more important. Sam probably didn’t know much about this, you couldn’t ask him. 

“... I don’t know.” 

“... Then you have a decision to make,” you murmured, leaning back in your chair and pinching the bridge of your nose. “More than one, really. We can keep digging, see what other dirt SHIELD has, or not. We can slander them to their enemies-- or not, that would defeat the purpose of staying out of sight. We can dig a little more and find out exactly what they’re hiding. If they had them here, they’d still have them now. And… I think you need to tell Bucky SHIELD has his detailed records from… from his time at HYDRA.” The words hurt, but they needed to be said. You’d inserted your opinion as well, not that it would mean too much to Steve in the end with a matter like this. But maybe it would influence his decision. “He deserves to know.” 

“It might destroy him.” 

You bit your lip. Steve was right. But so were you. “Would you want to be told, in his position..? … I don’t think I’m the best person to tell him. But if you don’t, I will,” you said quietly, making direct eye contact to reinforce the sincerity of your words. “He deserves better than being in the dark. … I have the feeling he’s been in the dark for far too long.” 

“He has,” Steve agreed, looking away. “... He’s my best friend, ____. How can I--” 

“You can’t keep things from him forever,” you argued gently. “I mean it, Steve, he deserves better. If he wants to read them, let him. If he doesn’t… so much the better,” you whispered, gesturing to the screen. You’d studied these records and tests in an attempt to figure out what the nature of the ‘weapon’ was. You knew now exactly what sort of horrors Bucky had suffered at the hands of HYDRA, something you would never dare to ask him to satisfy only your own curiosity. The constant ‘resetting.’ Having his ‘mechanical component’ taken apart and put back together again, countless times. 

How long had he fought this for? 

Were you sure you wanted you want to know? 

Was it even your business knowing..? 

“... I’m going to go make some tea or something,” you told Steve, brandishing your empty coffee cup. Another mug of coffee wouldn’t help you much right now, so tea it was. “Let me know what you decide. Or don’t, because it’s ultimately your decision. But he deserves to be told,” you said firmly, standing from your chair and making for the kitchen. 

At least there he wouldn’t be able to see the way your hands were shaking. 

You wanted to tell Bucky so badly. You meant it, he deserved to know about his own records. But Steve was right. What if it affected him so badly that you lost the Bucky you both knew and cared for? 

What if you lost him? 

_ No, trust him more than that, _ you told yourself, locking down the anxiety before it had a chance to manifest.  _ He’s got PTSD probably, it’s not like he’s some unpredictable wild animal. You trust him, right? So trust him with this. He’s not going to do something stupid. Throw a bed against a wall if he’s angry, maybe. But he won’t hurt anyone. Not on purpose. _ You were certain of the last one, at least. 

You were more certain of Bucky than you were of yourself, actually. 

A quick peek in the main room showed Steve rubbing his forehead, but he was standing and glancing towards the hallway. He was debating. Maybe your words had gotten through to him. Hopefully they had. 

And hopefully Bucky wouldn’t cut and run. 

“What's happened?” 

The words, so quiet even from the same room, you were only just able to catch from the kitchen. Another brief glance showed you Bucky had just entered the main office space. His sleeves were rolled up and his hair was slightly messier than usual, so you took a gander and supposed you were right earlier-- he'd been trying to get a little sleep. The circles under his eyes were as dark as ever, though. 

You turned back to the counter as you heard the chest-deep tones of Steve’s inside voice, not as gravelly as Bucky’s but always so compassionate. Sometimes almost too much. 

You preferred Bucky’s voice. 

You didn't hear it, though. Steve was explaining, he had to be, what else would he be saying? Whatever Bucky had seen on his face was enough to prompt an inquiry. 

And for once, you didn't want to know. Whatever Steve told him wasn't meant for you to overhear. It wasn't that it wasn't your business-- it was, now-- but… private conversations were meant to stay that way. And you didn't want to intrude. Steve and Bucky had been friends longer than you'd been alive. How were you supposed to worm your way into that? Simple: you weren't. 

So you kept your eyes on the kettle of water on the stove, waiting for it to boil with a carefully neutral expression. You were trying to not think. It wasn't working too well. 

A faint sound at the doorway had you turning, and you leaned against the countertop, the edge pressing against the small of your back. Bucky stood there, and if you knew him as well as you liked to think you did, his eyes looked… dark. And maybe just a little bit sad. 

Oh, you knew all about a little bit sad. That was… most of your days before your semi-permanent houseguest. 

His face was different from his eyes, however. It was… empty. Blank. And it didn't suit him, you thought, taking the necessary few steps towards him to wrap both arms around him. It was a familiar gesture, a little too familiar perhaps, but you thought that in Bucky’s position, knowing that someone didn't see you any differently after knowing vital information was kind of an important factor. You rested your head against his chest, one hand rubbing his back. 

Almost automatically his arms came up to loosely wrap around your shoulders. A little life flickered back into those blue eyes when you looked up at him, and you offered the man in your arms a tentative smile. The wariness in his gaze faded slightly, and you rested your cheek against his chest again, listening to his heartbeat. Words weren't necessary right now, not if you knew the person well enough. And you knew each other well enough to render words unnecessary right this second. 

He was still the Bucky you'd come to know and trust, no matter who had his records. That didn't change who he was to you. And now he knew that. 

He should have known before really, should have known you better than that, but now that you had some idea of what he'd been through, you decided you couldn't really fault him, even if you wanted to. That, or you wouldn't. Either was valid, you thought, as far as Bucky was concerned.  _ He _ was valid. And maybe he needed a little extra time to come to that conclusion as well. 

“... How did you know..?” 

“Hm? How did I know what?” you hummed, absently still rubbing his back. There were a couple things he could have meant. How did you know he needed a hug, how did you know how to do long division, or how to make sure that chicken was at a safe temperature when cooking-- 

“How did you know those were  _ my _ files..?” 

\-- or that. 

You hesitated, a slight frown reaching your features. He shifted slightly, the smallest of nonverbal signs that hug time was over, and without a word you stepped back, still thinking. “It’s… you know those things, where you’re thinking, and it kind of clicks? And it wasn’t clicking, and you’re frustrated, but then it all makes sense when you sit back a little?” 

Bucky nodded once, a small, silent gesture. 

“It was kind of like that. You… You were referred to as the Winter Soldier,” you stated. You didn’t have to ask that part. “Your full name is James Barnes, or Barnes, James. And 17… Well.” You shrugged awkwardly. “You  _ are _ literally a hundred years old. Sam may have complained about something to that effect a week ago,” you admitted sheepishly. “... Was… did… did you not remember..?” It wasn’t your business asking that question. But you thought, for the sake of Bucky’s mental stability, it might be a question that needed to be ask. 

Bucky faltered before answering. You’d never seen him this uncertain of his words. “I… thought I did,” he began slowly, “But… those were… confirmation.” 

You hummed, gently running your hand over his upper arm in an attempt at comfort. He seemed to appreciate it-- or at least, he didn’t pull away. “Making sure you know what you thought you knew?” you hazarded.

He nodded again, though he still looked troubled. You glanced over your shoulder at the kettle, knowing there to be a little water left in it. “... You want some tea?” you offered. “Tea… doesn’t fix everything, but I know it fixes a lot of problems when it’s consumed slowly.” 

Bucky seemed to debate. He probably had much more pressing things on his mind, sure. He felt a lot more distant than he had when the two of you had sat up for a few hours, just enjoying each other’s company. But that was kind of to be expected. So maybe a simple decision like tea would be an easy thing to think about, rather than ruminate on his records. You’d have to delve into that later-- why would SHIELD have those, in such detail? 

“... Sure.” 

“Okay,” you hummed with a smile, setting yours down so you could prepare another mug. The amount of tea and coffee the four of you went through was astonishing, under any other circumstances. Your gaze drifted to the refrigerator while you were starting the stove again. “... We’ll need to go to the market again soon. We’re almost out of food. … Ideally, you and I should go again,” you commented. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because that way we can limit how many faces the locals see?” you suggested. “Another possibility is that… well,  _ everyone _ knows Captain America. Steve’s at risk of being recognized and having a big deal made.” 

“What about Sam?” 

“He doesn’t tolerate me as well as you do,” you said with a cheeky grin shot over your shoulder. In all seriousness, there was no reason why Sam  _ couldn’t _ go with you. But you also thought maybe Bucky needed something ‘safe’ to focus on. And maybe ‘safe’ was grocery shopping. 

He looked for a long moment like he was mulling over the idea. You weren’t hurt that he had to think about it-- he’d just had a lot dropped on his shoulders. And you weren’t one to push for an answer unless it was dire. 

Hell, you’d go by yourself if you had to. You were the one least likely to be recognized. 

But an extra pair of arms was always nice for carrying enough food for four people, at least two of whom had astronomical metabolisms. 

“Oh-- I almost forgot,” you hummed, pausing and reaching over to a different part of the counter. “Kiwis. You’ve never had one and I am determined to have you try one today.” 

“Kiwi..?” he repeated softly, and you smiled at him, pulling a knife from the drawer and a cutting board from below the sink. 

“Yup. Kiwi.” You selected one and shaved off the hairy peel, carefully drawing the knife towards your thumb each time and stopping just short of cutting yourself. Was it the safest way to cut something? No. Was it the most convenient? Absolutely. Did you have people other than yourself to bandage your poor thumb if you happened to cut yourself? Also yes. As soon as the green fruit was peeled you cut it neatly into slices on the cutting board, delicately offering Bucky a slice. “Try it. It’s good!” 

He gave you a skeptical look, taking it from your fingers nevertheless. The inspecting look he gave the innocent fruit slice made you giggle. You weren’t stupid enough to go, ‘like this!’ and pop it in your mouth. Bucky knew how to eat a piece of fruit, and there was nothing complex about eating a slice of a kiwi. But you did cut a slice for yourself, biting into the juicy green slice with a happy hum when the sweet and slightly tangy flavor hit your tongue. If you were hard-pressed, you’d describe the flavor as a melon with a little strawberry and pineapple zing in the middle. But there was nothing quite like a kiwi that you’d ever tasted. 

You were willing to bet Bucky hadn’t tasted anything quite like it either, based on his expression when he finally took a cautious bite of the green slice. You saved that expression back in your mind, not wanting to forget it. It was a look mostly of mild surprise, but with a little curiosity and the smallest bit of wonder mixed in. All of this, of course, underneath his usual wall that was always only half-up around you. 

And for a minute, you reveled in the fact that Bucky let down his guard around you,  _ trusted _ you that much. He’d eaten things you gave him, almost everything, in fact. 

“What do you think?” you asked eagerly, already cutting another slice for yourself. Or for him, if he liked it that much. 

“It’s good.” 

With anyone else you’d be a little disappointed by the lack of reaction. But you knew Bucky better than that, and the subtle signs of appreciation were obvious to you. “Would you like another?” you offered, holding up the most recent slice. 

He stared at it for a moment before switching his gaze to you. Silently asking if it was okay. You smiled at him warmly, holding it out to him. He gingerly took it with his normal hand before taking a delicate bite of it. 

You’d seen both him and Steve inhale their food, so you could recognize that he was trying to actually taste what you gave him, instead of just treating it as fuel and scarfing it down as fast as he could. You popped another slice into your mouth, grinning at him when he glanced at you again. It was… nice, in a way, that you felt like you could be that open with him. And in return, that Bucky was as emotionally unguarded with you on a regular basis as you’d ever seen him. 

“... Don’t go for food today.” 

“Mm?” You tilted your head slightly, processing. Bucky didn’t want you to go get food from the market today. Tomorrow, then, because the four of you wouldn’t be able to wait any longer. “Okay. Why?” 

His eyes were fixed on you, that same intense dark blue you’d come to know so well. He didn’t answer for a minute, dropping his eyes to his hands before lacing his fingers together tightly. “Bad feeling about today.” 

Normally you needed some kind of factual evidence when told not to do something. There was always a reason, and you were getting a gut feeling that Bucky wasn’t telling you everything. 

But that was okay. He wouldn’t do anything or abstain from doing something that would put you in danger. And you weren’t going to push. 

“Okay,” you agreed quietly, cutting the last two slices of kiwi and offering him one. He took it, and you cleaned up the cutting board and the knife without another word, humming softly to yourself. Briefly, you wondered if there were any books worth reading here. That was to say, not technical reading, or textbooks on a subject you didn’t particularly care about. Something fictional, maybe. There probably weren’t any magazines worth reading, but if you found something, maybe you’d peruse it. 

Somehow you didn’t feel like you’d get much more work done today. 

“Assuming I can find something I’d like to read,” you began, “Do you want to sit with me a while?” You didn’t add that there was no talking necessary, Bucky knew that part. It was kind of a staple with you, and once you’d dried your hands you offered one to him. 

He eyed it, but you didn’t take offense. Bucky, if you were to analyze him… didn’t have self-esteem issues, exactly, but… he blamed himself for a lot. And you already knew at least how he felt about his arm, in the most general sense. He was probably wondering why you’d want to touch it. In the end, he took your hand with his right and let you pull him down the hall to the lounge you’d found a few days earlier. All of the ‘contemporary’ reading you’d found in here was outdated (not surprising), but it was something to read, and besides-- there was a couch. 

You gently tugged on Bucky’s hand, making for the couch until he sat down on one end. A snuggler you were, but in the event he wasn’t strictly okay with that, you made yourself comfortable on the other end. This time, though, you didn’t hesitate to rest your shoeless feet in his lap once you were settled, opening the book you’d snagged. It was some autobiography you thought you might find interesting, since you recognized the name on the front. Not really your style, so to speak, but it was something. 

And as fascinating as the life story of this person you’d only heard of before was, it wasn’t enough to keep your spotty sleep schedule from catching up to you. It was only a chapter or two later that your eyelids started to droop, as did the book in your hands. You were barely awake enough to notice when a silvery hand reached out, gently taking hold of your book and lifting it from your fingers. You, eyes all but closed and head resting against the top of the couch cushions, barely noticed, too close to dreamland to really mind. The last thought to cross your mind,  _ it wasn’t even that interesting anyway _ , barely registered, but it wasn’t that important. 

You managed a sleepy murmur that sounded vaguely like a ‘thank you’ before you passed out completely. Sleeplessness over a long period of time would take its toll, though yours would probably never be as bad as Bucky’s. Bucky, to his credit, stayed where he was, both of his hands resting lightly on your bare ankles while you rested. 

He wasn’t going to put you in danger-- well,  _ more _ danger-- by falling asleep next to you. He had some idea what had the potential to happen, and he wasn’t willing to let it happen to you while there was something he could do to prevent it. 

Bucky trusted you, and it was an odd feeling, something in recent memory that he could only recall around Steve. Sam… was decent. But he didn’t trust him like he trusted Steve. And now you, apparently. He wasn’t quite sure when you’d slipped into that narrow circle that was barely any kind of shape at all, but you had, with as little fanfare and as few changes as were possible. He stared at you for several long minutes, quietly deciding that… maybe you were worth the risk. He trusted you already, to an almost unprecedented degree. What was a little more? 

It would be almost two hours before you roused again, realizing belatedly that you’d fallen asleep on him and apologizing profusely before he stopped you. In not quite so many words, he’d explained that it was a ‘nice’ experience, having someone again who trusted him enough to fall asleep with him in the room. 

You’d gone quiet at that, tilting your head slightly with a wondering look before smiling. Your smile was genuine, pulling your lips up at the corners just enough to crinkle the edges of your eyes and making them sparkle. 

“I’m glad you trust me, Bucky,” you murmured, reaching out to cover his left hand (the nearest one) with one of yours. He lifted it automatically so you could lace your fingers together, and you felt an almost warm glow that you hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

He smiled. It was small, barely even qualified as a smile on someone else, but it was enough, and you returned it, laying your head back down against the top of the couch cushion and closing your eyes. A little more rest wouldn't hurt, not if he didn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I am still in need of a proofreader. Perks of being a proofreader include but are not limited to:   
> Hearing and helping work out plots for other, future reader fics (such as one I've started drafting)  
> reading the rest of the story, including the stuff that is far from being posted yet   
> reading SEKRITS and potential plot twists  
> I will literally write short things for you as gifts do not underestimate me
> 
> If you're interested, please leave a comment and I'll get in touch with you as soon as I can!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems to me that you and the boys have had a little too much downtime. Thanks to my two new lovely proofreaders for going through what's left of the story and fixing my (many) mistakes!! You have them to thank for the next chapter being finished-- and this one being uploaded so quickly! :) Enjoy, my lovelies!

You glanced up again to where Bucky sat at the desk across from you, reading quietly. You were worried about him. There was no reason to be, he didn’t really need worried over, but you thought maybe he’d gone without it for too long, so you worried. 

It wasn’t that he’d been quiet, he was normally like this, but today was a different kind of quiet. The loaded kind, like in the ‘I want to say something but it wouldn’t be a good something so I might not say it’ way. And in the event you were just overreading things, you didn’t want to bring it up. Besides which, a basic rule with Bucky was that if he wanted you to know something, he would tell you, and you had to respect that.    


It was a rule that had done you well so far. 

“You don’t seem to be getting much done today.” 

His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact, but you dropped your gaze back to the computer screen anyway. “I have, actually,” you objected quietly, tapping your fingers against your jaw. You switched your gaze back to him. No sense in hiding it if you’d been caught, after all. 

“Such as?” 

“Worming my way into a locked file.” Your voice didn’t hold any of the pride you’d normally have felt. That file had been a bitch to get into, with a numeric code you’d guessed at, and after a few dozen tries you’d guessed correctly. 

“Not happy about that?” 

“Just... worried.” 

“About?” 

You shrugged, taking a sip of your tea. You didn’t really want to go into it, didn’t want to voice what scared you. Another anxiety attack was not on your list of plans for the day and you’d be damned if you didn’t learn to manage it. “Lots of things.” 

A pair of dark blue eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Like what?” 

“You,” you said immediately, resting your chin in your hand and meeting his gaze over your monitor. 

The slightest flicker of his eyebrows had you elaborating. “I’m not worried about you relapsing or anything, so to speak. You’re stronger than that. But you haven’t gotten much sleep, if any, and there’s got to be a way for you to get some decent rest,” you told him, frowning in thought. 

Bucky shook his head once. “There isn’t.” 

“But--” 

“I’ve tried everything.” His voice was low, and it wasn’t hard, but it was firm. “ ‘Natural’ options. Medications. Music. Getting drunk, which takes some doing. Hard work.” 

You pursed your lips. “What about a body pillow? Something to have your back against, so to speak?” you offered. “When I was little that helped me. What have you got to lose?” 

“Tried it,” he responded. “The pillow was in pieces before morning.” 

You nodded, digesting this information. “... Nightlight?” 

“No change,” he said, the smallest of smiles pulling at his lips. 

You wracked your brains, trying to remember any scraps you’d learned about PTSD night terrors in that one psychology class you’d taken early in college. Nothing came to mind, aside from certain medications (which, from the sound of it he’d already tried) and meditation. But Bucky seemed, especially at times like these, to be one of the most zen people you knew. 

He wasn’t, of course, but he seemed that way sometimes. 

“... Let’s go for a walk,” you suggested, standing and stretching before extending a hand, as an offer. As usual, he took it, absently running his thumb over your knuckles when he stood. You left a note on the doorway for Steve and Sam saying that you’d gone for a short walk, before the heat of the day really hit, and the two of you were on your way up the steps of the bunker when he froze. Bucky stopped abruptly enough that you continued a step ahead of him before being forced to halt, as your arm wasn’t coming with you. 

You turned to give him a puzzled look, but he held a finger to his lips. His eyes were… different, now. Hard. Colder than the dark blue you’d come to associate with him, and with safety. You strained your ears, listening as best you could. 

_ … Is that a helicopter? _

“Wildcat,” Bucky said softly, giving your arm a gentle pull. Without hesitation you slipped around him and headed back down the stairs, making for where you knew Steve and Sam were still going through files. With the code you’d found on Bucky’s file, they were looking now for any other HYDRA files. Maybe they could find something to ruin or sufficiently distract SHIELD, or that was the hope. But there was no reason for a helicopter to be this far out and they needed to know. 

_ If it seems too coincidental then it’s not a coincidence, _ Steve had said one time, and it seemed that way now. 

You didn’t look to see if Bucky followed you. In this case, you were the messenger, and didn’t need assistance, and he was better equipped to guard the way down in the astronomical chance they found the place. 

An icy hand clenched around your heart as you came to another realization. This was an old SHIELD base. SHIELD probably never lost track of the places they abandoned, which meant they  _ knew _ this was here. What if they were coming to check on it? 

What if they found Bucky before the four of you could get out? 

Where would you even go? 

“Steve, Sam!” You called out once you reached the hall they were supposed to be down. A blonde head poked out of an open doorway, followed by Steve stepping into the hallway with a frown. You didn’t normally sound this frantic. “Bucky and I were gonna go for a walk and we heard a helicopter--” 

“What kind?” he interrupted, eyes narrowing. 

You faltered. What had Bucky said? “I don’t-- don’t remember--” 

“AW159 Wildcat,” the man himself said from behind you, approaching even as he spoke. 

Steve’s frown worsened and Sam stepped around him. “Military,” he said to Bucky and Steve, crossing his arms. “We used to use those. They’re armed.” 

“They know,” you said softly, looking between all present. “They remember the base is here. What if they’re looking for it?” 

“We need to go,” Steve said quickly, gesturing down the hall. “You two go down there. There’s a side tunnel that leads out a mile or two away from here. Sam and I will grab a couple of relevant files, and what we came here with.” Weapons, probably. You didn’t stop to ask, nor could you when Bucky grabbed your wrist and pulled you along. His grip stayed gentle, though. The same couldn’t be said for his other arm, which supported some kind of rifle you thought he might have grabbed on his way down here. It wasn’t a small gun. 

Although, in Bucky’s hands, the size of the weapon didn’t matter. He was lethal all by himself. 

This was stupid, you reflected as you ran to keep up with his much longer strides. Why were you worrying about him? He could handle himself, had done so far, and from snippets of conversation between the three men you’d gathered that they’d already escaped SHIELD’s grasp once before, as a team. 

_ Because you worry about the people you love. _

You nearly stumbled at your realization. Was that what this was? No, couldn’t be. It was too fast, too soon. But what else made sense? You worried about Steve and Sam equally, though maybe not in the exact same sense. 

They could get caught, or wounded. Steve and Bucky at least were borderline superhuman, could defend themselves against just about anything. They wouldn’t get sick. Might live forever if something else didn’t impact their daily lives. 

But at the end of the day, they were still human. 

“Hurry up.”    
  
Bucky’s sharp, uncompromising voice came from ahead of you, and you quickened your steps a little to keep up with him better. The last thing you wanted to do was lag behind.

“What about Steve and Sam? Shouldn’t we wait for them?” you asked anxiously, having a feeling you knew what his answer would be before he even opened his mouth. You turned out to be right. 

“They’ll catch up.” 

You wondered briefly about the ‘no man left behind’ thing that the armed forces taught, because Bucky sure didn’t seem to be adhering to it now. What did that mean for the other two men in your small group? 

When had it become your group? 

You opened your mouth to ask something else, something that was probably pointless to ask, and you saw Bucky turn his head slightly to give you a look out of the corner of his eye. Waiting for you to say something. And instead, you shook your head, jogging a few extra steps to keep up. There was nothing you could say now that wouldn’t be able to wait until later. Just curiosity and worry. 

That was about the time a low, rumbled  _ boom _ echoed down the metal-lined tunnel, followed almost immediately by a shock wave that made you stumble. Bucky’s grip on your wrist kept you upright. Moments later, the sound of more footsteps reached you-- just two pairs, if you were hearing correctly-- and a quick glance from Bucky revealed that he wasn’t worried. Concerned. Narrowed eyes. But not  _ worried _ about who was overtaking you both. 

Steve and Sam caught up to you two with seemingly no effort, giving you an idea of how much faster Bucky could run and how he was taking it easy for your sake.

“Steve!!” 

His voice was sharp, and just a little bit loud. Maybe it was to hear over the sound of wind in your ears. Maybe it was to hear over the rumbling of the tunnel around you. And for once, Bucky looked properly pissed. And it scared you, just a little bit. You’d never seen him with an angry expression. Detached, yes. But not mad. 

Steve, for his part, had a tight expression with narrowed blue eyes underneath lighter brows. “What.” Neither of them even sounded winded, and you couldn’t help a flash of envy. 

“You just cut off our way back. If they’re waiting at the end of this tunnel we’ll be going right into their hands.” His voice was mostly level, but still upset. His eyes didn’t match. Bucky’s eyes said that if looks could kill Stevie would be back there under the still-collapsing tunnel. 

“They were back there anyway,” Steve responded grimly. “Going back had a certainty of running into them. We don’t know yet if they’re at the end.” 

Bucky snarled something that didn’t sound complimentary, and the sound raised hairs on the back of your neck. A risked glance backwards showed you blood running down Sam’s arm, but whatever it was, there wasn’t enough blood for it to be life-threatening, so you kept running to keep up with Bucky, and now both Steve and Sam, who had pulled ahead. It didn’t escape your notice that all three men were armed again. Incredible how that didn’t surprise you in the slightest anymore. 

You yelped when something fell right behind you, and the men all glanced back before Bucky nearly tugged you off your feet as they quickened their pace into a sprint. When you could afford to, you also looked over your shoulder to see chunks of the ceiling laying where you had passed moments before. 

_ Well. That could have been bad. _

A surge of fear added a burst of speed to your steps, and you moved your hand around so you were holding Bucky’s hand rather than him grasping your wrist. You weren’t a child anymore. 

As another section of the ceiling and wall collapsed behind the four of you, a cloud of dust overtook you, and that was about when the lights went out. There was a soft sound of fear when they did, and it took you a minute to realize it had come from you. 

You weren’t afraid of the dark, nor were you afraid of what was in it. 

You were afraid of being buried alive. 

Your heart felt ready to beat clear out of your chest and up through your throat as you burned what reserves of energy you had left after this marathon, eventually catching a hazy glimpse of light behind a door and faint silhouettes of the other three in front of you before the door was thrown open, and you were unceremoniously hauled through just in time for the ceiling and walls on the inside of it to come crashing down. 

Blinded by the sudden light and coughing, you didn’t fight the arms pulling you upright and forward again. The sudden burst of gunfire along with a metal hand pressing you to the ground only sank in a moment too late, and by the time it registered you were moving again, not necessarily of your own volition. Your limbs felt like rubber, your reserves of adrenaline long spent. 

But your escape wasn’t over yet. 

You’d learn later that upon having a grenade shoved in their faces, the few agents sent to double check this ‘abandoned’ location called in reinforcements that had been on their way during your mad sprint down the tunnel-like hall. For now, all you knew was that as soon as you were on your feet again, you were roughly pushed against the eroded walls of one of the neglected buildings you recognized when you opened your eyes. It was one of the remains of the houses next to (several hundred yards away from) the one the entrance to bunker was in. 

The next thing you noticed was that there was a broad, red-shirted back in front of you, with both arms reaching behind them to cage you on either side. One was metal, the other held the same big gun from a few minutes earlier, leaving you with little question (if there had ever been one) as to who was braced in front of you right now. 

The most cautious peek around Bucky’s arm had your next breath locking up in your chest. That was a lot of guns. All of them were pointed at Bucky-- and you as well, it seemed-- and that was a  _ lot _ of guns. And he was in this position for you.  _ Because _ of you. 

You weren’t prone to crying, or pleading when things got bad, not even when you were in the middle of an anxiety attack or similar. But this time was different.

And you were afraid. 

Gently, ever so gently, your fingers tangled in the red, worn fabric of the back of Bucky’s shirt. 

“... Bucky..?” you whispered softly. There was no response-- you didn’t really expect there to be. You weren’t looking for comfort, or for someone to tell you it was okay. You didn’t really even expect acknowledgment, not in a situation like this. 

You weren’t sure what you expected. 

Flinching as a flurry of movement erupted in front of you, complete with a few gunshots that sounded like they ricocheted off of something metal, you whipped back to face front when Bucky grunted, sinking to a knee. It wasn’t one of his acknowledgment grunts, which was what terrified you. You dropped to your knees as well (maybe you meant to help, maybe he’d been hurt), only to be pressed back behind him again by his left arm. His right was held close to his body. 

The next few moments were terrifying, and even as fast as your mind was racing right now, it took you a good long minute to catch up with what was going on, even as someone’s hand-- warm, far too warm-- pressed against your back roughly, forcing your chest to the ground with your arms pinned behind you and causing the side of your head to collide with the sandy soil with a soft ‘ _ oof _ ’. The sounds of fists hitting flesh off to your side made it through the ringing in your ears, but as soon as the sound reached you the scuffle was over, and Bucky’s face hit the ground as well, facing you. 

His eyes weren’t the emotional wasteland you expected to see right now. He was furious, but in the heartbeat that his eyes met yours, you saw the last emotion you ever expected to see on his face. 

_ Fear _ , you realized past a dry mouth, jerking in an attempt to free an arm so you could reach out to him. What that would accomplish, you didn’t know, but you were rewarded with a knee grinding into your back, pinning you down while another hand seized your wrist, immobilizing you further. 

His eyes darkened and Bucky’s entire body surged upwards. But you could hear the  _ clank _ and the hiss of pain when he was flattened again by several pairs of arms, one of which wrestled what looked like half of a giant handcuff over his metal wrist. The ground shuddered as it hooked into the earth, crackling with electricity, and though you could see the musculature of Bucky’s metal arm straining, it was showing no inclination to move. 

You couldn’t help a shocked sob when something pinched your neck,  _ hard _ , and in the furthest edges of your peripheral vision you caught the edge of a syringe.  _ No, no no no no no-- _

You looked back to Bucky in a panic, who looked more enraged than before, noting with no small amount of terror that he was blurring at the edges. But that wasn’t him. It was you. It was whatever they’d just stuck you with.

“Bucky please don’t let them do this  _ please _ \--” 

What you were asking for was impossible for him to fix. You knew this, but that didn’t stop the frightened words tripping out of your mouth anyway. You couldn’t see him well anymore, knowing regardless that his eyes were wide and alarmed, underneath very, very angry eyebrows. 

A gloved hand covered your mouth, and in your panic you bit it as hard as you could. But right this second, that turned out to not be very hard at all. You were fading. And you were afraid.

“... Buck… please…” you mumbled, whatever else you meant to say escaping as a garbled sigh. Your eyelids felt heavier than whoever was pinning you down, and you couldn’t find a way to resist it anymore, slipping gently into unconsciousness. 


	12. Chapter 12

Awareness returned slowly and with a vengeance. 

Your head pounded like a steam engine when you finally summoned the energy to open your eyes, straightening and whimpering at the pain that shot through your neck and spine. Apparently you’d been sitting hunched forward for far too long. Lifting your head, you blearily looked around. 

The room-- if it could be called that-- was small, and your hands were pinned to the arms of a metal chair by clamps that looked… eerily similar to the turbo-sized one you could remember them slamming down on Bucky’s arm-- 

_ Bucky!! _

Your head snapped up, with you left trying to disregard the corresponding pain. Your sudden revelation that nobody you knew was around didn’t hold much surprise for you. You could remember the running, the scuffle, the  _ needle, _ and then… nothing. Your head rolled around your shoulders, trying to get some kind of information from the room you were in. 

_ How long have I been here? What happened while I was out? Where’s Bucky? Steve? Sam? What’s going to happen?! _

These questions and more rushed through your mind while you tried to take in your surroundings with a level mind, making it rather difficult. The white room you were in was barely bigger than your bathroom at home, and your uncomfortable chair was in the middle of it. Your wrists and ankles were bound by those same clamps on the arms and legs. There was a security camera behind a glass dome in the corner, trained on you, with a small red blinking light.  _ Recording. _ Before you was a single door-sized panel in the wall, with no obvious way to open it. The walls themselves were completely barren. 

Your breathing came faster now, in quick pants that made the room seem smaller to your spiraling mind.  _ They’re gone they might be dead and he didn’t leave me behind like he was supposed to he’s probably here too, somewhere, oh god what if this is how I die what if the three of them are already dead WHAT IF THEY’RE DEAD ALREADY _ \-- 

_ Don’t be stupid. They’re hard to kill and Sam and Steve were nowhere to be seen when you and Bucky were surrounded. _

You sank your teeth into your lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, in a frantic attempt to steer your mind back towards order. You were  _ not _ going to succumb to this panic now. 

_ They’re probably gone and away and trying to find a way to break you out, or erase the problem entirely. If the jackasses who captured you wanted you dead you’d be dead by now, so they obviously don’t want you dead. _

Right. Focus. You were probably just overreacting. And you were probably kept in here for questioning and torture if Steve and Sam never turned up. Unfortunately for them, you didn’t know anything. A quick visual inspection told you that you were still in the same clothes from however many hours earlier, and had nothing useful on you, not even a ballpoint pen, meaning escape was out of the question. Exactly how you would enact a brilliant and daring escape with only a ballpoint pen was not a question you cared to ponder right now, and decided to contemplate it later-- if you ever got out of here in one piece and back to your normal day-to-day life. 

Your attention shot back to the door-sized panel in the wall as it slid slightly away from you, and then to the side, revealing a blonde woman with dark eyes and a small chin. She held a pistol with both hands, pointed towards the ground, and your eyes narrowed.  _ Her _ eyes, however, were on the camera in the corner, and you’d been travelling with the boys for too long to not notice the way she was carefully situated  _ just _ out of its range of view. 

As soon as you made this mental connection, there was a strange whirring sound from the camera, and the red light went out. No sooner had this happened than the blonde rushed forward, fingers making quick work of the clamps on your ankles first. 

“I’m here to get you out,” she muttered under her breath as your left ankle clicked free. “Rogers is fine. Wilson took care of the cameras, he was fine when I left him.” Your right ankle was free now. “They wouldn’t leave without you so you and I are going to meet them, and then you’re going to leave and I’m going to help them get Barnes.” 

“I’m going with you,” you interrupted quietly, with a tone that was just as fierce as you felt right then. She looked up from opening your left wrist’s clamp with a look that could freeze lava. 

“No you’re not. The fewer people we have down in secure containment the better.” 

There was something else in her eyes. She wasn’t telling you everything, and you thought-- maybe a bit arrogantly, but you thought-- maybe you could guess what was wrong. 

“He’ll listen to me,” you said firmly. Her gaze flickered. You were right. 

Bucky wasn’t himself right now. 

She hesitated, which was all you needed. “I’m going with you.” 

The woman huffed, but didn’t argue again. Maybe Bucky was worse than you thought, and the dark possibility occured to you-- you weren’t meant to  _ fix _ someone. Bucky wasn’t someone  _ you _ could fix. What if this went horribly wrong? 

What if he killed you, even by accident? 

You had to try. He would try for you. He  _ had _ tried for you, he’d tried to protect you, keep you safe. You’d be damned if you slipped out the back door without him. 

As soon as your right wrist was free you were following the blonde lady down the corridor, where she had her gun drawn and cocked and was peering around corners before turning them. Every security camera you passed was deactivated, and you quietly decided that Sam was very, very good at his job. 

You passed a number of (presumably) unconscious SHIELD agents on the way, and though you didn’t see any blood, that didn’t mean much, if anything. 

It was only on a lower level when the two of you emerged into a broad, wide-open space that was similar to the inside of a warehouse that she paused. There was a vessel, small, a bit like a ferris wheel cart, that looked reinforced with heavy glass and strips of metal. Inside you could see a clamp similar to the one that had stopped Bucky beforehand, on the left side of a chair, but the capsule was empty. 

There was also shattered two-inch-thick glass on the front of it, showing that it had been destroyed from within. Your heart sank.  _ Too late. Where is he? _

The doors off to the side of the room had dents in them that, if pressed to hazard a guess, you’d say were made by a metal fist. 

_ There. _

“Come on,” you said sharply, jogging for the doors. 

“Wait!!” she snapped to no avail, hurrying after you until the doors stopped you both. You couldn’t open one by yourself, but together the two of you pried one open, and you slipped through first, just in time to duck away from someone in a SHIELD uniform being slung across the room and against the wall beside you. They dropped as dead weight and the individual who’d thrown them strode menacingly across what looked like it used to be a mess hall. It was in shambles now. 

He never stopped moving. Not his feet, not his arms, nothing about him stopped moving-- except his face. His face was just… frozen. Expressionless. And the sense of unadulterated terror coursing through your veins now had everything to do with the man across the room, currently slamming Steve into the concrete wall to his left. 

You’d accept Bucky for whoever he was, as long as he was himself, but he wasn’t himself here. And he wasn’t Bucky anymore. Not right now. You didn’t know if he could be again-- but he would be. He had to be. 

You couldn’t conceive any other end result. 

You also had nothing else to cling to. 

The… former sergeant crossed the room in quick decisive strides, his left arm whipping through the air to send Steve crashing against the wall for the second time in fifteen seconds.  _ He’s heading for the exit. _ The realization came with a sinking feeling, your eyes flicking momentarily to the big bay doors on the side of the big room. It felt a little too familiar to the last actual warehouse you’d been in layout-wise to be comfortable for you, but you couldn’t exactly complain-- what could you have said? Being imprisoned in a SHIELD base wasn’t your first choice. Or any choice you’d make, really.

Another crash.

There went Steve.  _ Again _ . 

The man across the room wasn’t walking any faster, but the expression he was wearing terrified you. Steve glanced at you for a heartbeat. He couldn’t stop him. Sam was probably out cold or something over in the corner, laying where Not-Bucky had left him, otherwise he’d be here. And Not-Bucky... well, he’d kill you if you tried to stop him as well. 

But… you had to try. Not for some bullshit about ‘the greater good,’ or for the betterment of humanity, but for Bucky. He deserved saving.  _ And I’ll get thrown across the room too and crippled for life, _ you thought darkly, sprinting across the wide open space. Steve successfully clocked Not-Bucky in the jaw, only to have his second hook blocked, earning himself another arm to the stomach, sending him a few meters away. Yet again.  _ Damnit. _

You sped up. 

It took you a matter of seconds to get between Not-Bucky and the doors leading out to the roof, and in that time Steve got his ass handed to him twice more. If that happened to Steve, you didn’t want to think about what that same arm would do to you. 

You remembered what that arm had felt like under your fingertips-- and while you liked to think he was capable of remembering, you knew very well what was probably going to happen. 

But you were going to risk it. Not for anyone else, not for Steve or Sam (as much as you adored both of them)-- but for Bucky. 

Always for Bucky. 

You weren’t sure what you were planning to do when you got to him, or when he got to you, but when his left arm came out to push you aside and out of his way, you wrapped your fingers around the smooth metal. 

“Bucky--” 

His name ended in a sharp exhale when his arm flicked. To you, it felt like a battering ram, and you hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs. It hurt, but you didn’t stay on the floor, scrabbling at the tile for purchase and reaching for him again with only one thought in your mind.

That hit wasn’t as hard as it should have been. 

“Bucky.” 

The steely arm was jerked out of your grip this time. You never touched him. 

“Stop.” 

The single word was a gravelly, rough command. But after listening to him for so long, it didn’t sound like a command to you. It was a plea. A well-hidden plea, but a plea nonetheless.

You weren’t sure you’d ever heard him plead.

You didn’t want to hear it again. It didn’t sound right coming from his lips. 

You couldn’t stop now. You didn’t know where Bucky was going, but you weren’t going to let him leave. You couldn’t. He  _ couldn’t _ leave. In your peripheral vision, you saw Steve pushing himself to his feet again, slower than he would have if he hadn’t been knocked against a wall or a floor several times, and he was sporting a split lip and a scrape on one cheekbone. He also held his side once he was standing again, giving you the impression he might have a cracked rib or two.

“Bucky, please,” you managed, reaching for him again and sliding your fingers down his arm a few inches before he shoved you away again. 

But you stayed on your feet this time. 

“Bucky!” Your voice was sharp this time, tinged with desperation, and with one hand braced on his left forearm, you wrapped your other arm around his chest from behind, tucking your face against his back in between his shoulder blades. “Please, Bucky.” 

“Who the hell is Bucky?” 

His voice was rough, almost a growl, and you could feel your heart break when he asked the (probably rhetorical) question.  He stomped and shifted his shoulders, loosening your grip before continuing to walk. There was a few seconds’ distance between you and the door now. You whipped around in front of him, once again blocking his way. 

“Bucky is you,” you managed, throat starting to close on you. “And you  _ know _ me.”

“No I don’t.”

Anyone else wouldn’t have caught the ever-so-slight undertone of uncertainty. But you weren’t anyone else. 

He brushed you aside, and for a heartbeat, you stood still, trying to force down the emotions that would get in between you and helping the man who was still moving. Steve was in front of the door now, ready to fend off his best friend again when he reached him. He looked so tired. 

“You know me!” you finally cried, but there was no verbal response.  “Who am I?” His steps hesitated.

“I don’t know.” 

“You  _ know _ me!! Tell me,  _ who am I? _ ” This was your last try. You didn’t know what else would work. What else would stop him. How could he forget you?  _ “Who am I?!” _

“... ____.” 

A hard breath escaped you in what might have been relief. “That’s right,”  you finally choked out, wrapping both of your arms around his upper left one and pressing your cheek to his bicep. You were crying now. When had that happened? “I’m ____.” Your breath was jerky now, with sobs you didn’t want. “I’m ____. And you’re Bucky. You’re our Bucky.” 

His steps stopped altogether now, and you buried your face against the red fabric of the shirt sleeve covering his upper arm. Any minute now you expected to be shoved away, and then he’d fight Steve again, and Steve would lose because he wouldn’t kill his best friend to stop him, and you’d lose them both. 

But that didn’t happen. 

Instead, you felt a warm, calloused hand slide over your hair, followed by the shift of the metal arm you were clinging to moving away. You let it go this time, curling in on yourself. It was like you’d thought. If this didn’t work, nothing you could come up with would, and this hadn’t worked. That was all she wrote, you’d lost him, and now all three of you would lose him. Because you weren’t strong enough. You hadn’t been enough to remind him of who he was, and he was leaving. You’d failed. 

Your head snapped up when the sound of something buzzing reached you, only to see the blonde from earlier holding the handle part of a stun gun, the ends of which were lodged in Bucky’s back. You could remember in movies and shows you’d watch how the effect was funny on whoever was getting tased, but not here. 

“Stop, stop stop stop!” you shouted at her, dropping to your knees next to him. You knew enough to not touch him yet. 

No sooner had she released the trigger than you were attempting to roll Bucky over to remove the tiny spikes from his back, but Steve stepped in, doing just that and picking his friend up with a grunt in a fireman’s carry. 

“We need to get out of here,” he said tightly, looking over the blonde woman’s shoulder to see Sam walking in, using the wall as a prop and rubbing his head. You went to help him-- not much you could do other than support him, but you’d do that regardless-- and followed Steve and the now-jittery blonde lady up a few sets of stairs. The emergency lights were on, blinking, and each turn in the staircase where you didn’t see anyone made you even more nervous. 

“Where are we going?” you timidly asked of the group at large. Even now, Bucky wasn’t moving. You had time to worry that the volts had done a little more than they were supposed to. 

“Roof,” Steve responded. “Helicopter we can use is up there.” 

“Can it carry this many people?” 

You didn’t know if the blonde was coming with you. Privately, you hoped not. Were you threatened? A bit, you knew yourself well enough to know that, but that didn’t change their decision. 

“Yes. It’s equipped for five.” 

Damn. 

“I’m not going with you,” the blonde woman told Steve decisively. 

“Sharon, you know what will happen when they wake up.” Steve sounded concerned, and a very tiny part of you was possessive over Steve. That was ridiculous. This woman had just helped you all in a probably brilliant escape plan, you should feel grateful. You did, just… also a little jealous. 

“I do,” ‘Sharon’ confirmed. “But… I need to get back and let them think someone else was the mole.” 

“They’ll find you out.” 

“Probably. But this molehunt will give you guys some extra time.” She sounded concerned, but also determined, and you had a brief wave of respect for Sharon. So she worked for SHIELD, and was still helping Steve and Sam get you and Bucky out.

Either she owed Steve a big favor and it was now paid back, or Steve now owed her a giant one. 

She opened the door to the roof, giving it a quick look around before jogging across the roof over to where the helicopter waited. In short order, Sam and Bucky were strapped in (“What, you’re gonna leave me back here with the guy who just tried to kill all of us?” Sam had complained. “No, only you,” you’d responded in dark humor.) and Steve was in the pilot’s seat. You watched the ground shrink beneath you, feeling a bit uneasy even though you didn’t have a fear of heights so to speak. 

The helicopter hadn’t been refueled just yet from its last voyage, so it didn’t take the four of you too terribly far, but since Steve had ripped out the location tracker before you left, it didn’t really have to. After everyone was off the helicopter (at the entrance to a warehouse, which you weren’t terribly happy about) Steve pushed it into the river right next to it, which struck you as a terrible waste but that was probably the best option. It wouldn’t be found unless someone was to drag the river, which SHIELD wouldn’t have any clue to do in your opinion. 

The warehouse was abandoned-- no surprise, given its location on the far side of the river in the middle of several other abandoned buildings-- and you saw bits and pieces of chopped up cars in the corners. A side room held what might be a huge clamp, or that’s how it looked to you. You weren’t sure. 

You didn’t know if Sam saw the indecision on Steve’s face as well as you did, but you did see the moment the wavering turned to a course of action, and Steve closed Bucky’s arm in the clamp in the side room, face grim. It was weighted down almost as much as he could make it, and you privately hoped it wouldn’t do any damage. In Steve’s defense though, if nothing had scratched this arm so far, nothing  _ would _ . 

Taking a short breath, you gently laid a hand on his shoulder when he went back by you. “He’ll be fine,” you whispered, giving him a light pat. Steve smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. You returned the same sort of empty smile. 

You were in the same boat here. 

It was almost an hour before Bucky stirred. Sam had been watching him, while Steve paced and occasionally looked out the closed doors of the warehouse. Helicopters had been going over the area for the last several minutes, and you had no doubt of who they were looking for. 

He was over at the doors when Sam called him, and you joined them as they approached the side room. You’d given up on pacing a while ago, tried to rest, but sleep hadn’t come to you. It wasn’t as though you really expected it to. 

Bucky groaned softly, lifting his head and blinking owlishly. You started forward, your face shifting into an expression resembling relief, but Sam caught your arm. When you looked back at him, his eyes were trained on Bucky, and his face was hard. 

You supposed you couldn’t blame him, even though it stung. The last time Sam had run into him, Bucky’d probably knocked him clear across the room. He’d been unconscious for a few minutes, in any case. 

Steve was the first person Bucky’s eyes landed on. “Steve,” he managed. His voice sounded rough, so much rougher than you knew his voice to be normally, and your heart went out to him. But you didn’t move yet. Steve and Sam were both staying out of range. What did that say about how safe Bucky was to be around? 

_ Simple-- he’s not _ . 

You crushed the thought as soon as it occurred to you. After all, it wasn’t anything you hadn’t already known. 

Steve’s face was carefully neutral, but you’d known him long enough to pick out his tells. “Which Bucky am I talking to?”  

Bucky was quiet for a moment, eyebrows pulled together in thought. It wasn’t an angry or upset kind of face, though. You thought you knew him well enough to identify that much. “... Your mom’s name was Sarah,” he said at last, the wrinkle between his eyebrows easing a little with the faintest of smiles before his next statement. “You… you used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” 

Steve’s face relaxed. “Can’t read  _ that _ in a museum,” he confirmed in a low tone, and you moved forward now with no fear (just apprehension) to gently brush Bucky’s hair out of his eyes. Could he do it himself with his right hand? Yes. Would he? Probably not. So you would do it for him. 

“... ____.” 

“Mm?” you responded softly with a gentle smile, cupping his face with one hand and running your thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone. His stubble pricked at your palms, but it wasn’t a sensation that you minded. 

“You… smell like honey.”

Your breath caught in your throat. 

“And…” He trailed off, brows coming together again. “... You… you dance, almost, when you cook and you think no one’s watching.” 

Coming from anyone else, that would have been creepy. But Bucky sounded like he was trying to parse more recent memories from older ones of Steve, when they were both younger. So you nodded, and smiled, confirming his tentative statements.

From behind you, Sam snorted. “And just like that, we’re supposed to be cool?” You shot him a glare, but it went unnoticed. You thought Sam had reason to be upset, sure, but that hadn’t been Bucky. That was the Winter Soldier. Not Bucky. This was Bucky, in front of you. This was  _ your _ Bucky. And if you had a damn thing to say about it, he wasn’t going anywhere.

But Bucky’s face fell. “What did I do?” he asked. No preamble. No beating around the bush. No using humor to cushion anything like you had a tendency to do. 

Steve seemed to share the same tendencies. “Enough.” 

Bucky’s eyes closed and he exhaled, hard, tipping his cheek further into your palm. He was looking for comfort. If nothing else,  _ that _ you could give him. “I knew this would happen,” he whispered, and you frowned. How could he know this would happen? 

Which part of it did he know would happen? The ‘getting caught’ thing? The ‘switching mindsets’ thing? The ‘getting caught because of some civilian who shouldn’t have been here’--

_ Stop that. _

“Bucky,” you murmured quietly, “Which part did you know would happen…?”

He opened his eyes, focusing on you. The hopelessness in them made your heart crack. Looked like you were a long way past ‘nothing but platonic feelings.’ “The relapse,” he finally replied in a voice just as low as yours. “Everything-- everything HYDRA put in me is still there.” 

You didn’t ask. It wasn’t your place to know exactly what happened to Bucky in between the years Steve knew him, when they were both average humans, and when he’d brought him to your door looking like a half-drowned chocolate lab. 

“We’ll find a way to fix this,” you told him with perfect certainty.  _ That’s not a promise you can make. _ “There’s got to be a way. And we’re going to find it.” It also wasn’t even a promise you could keep. But there had to be a way to do it, and hell if you weren’t going to go to the ends of the earth to find it for the man in front of you now. Because he deserved better than his current lot in life, whether or not  _ he _ thought he deserved it. 

His eyes closed again briefly, and his head fell forward an inch or so. He didn’t respond. 

You didn’t try to make him. 

Gently, you ran your fingers through his hair, still greasy and sweaty from between the last time he’d bathed and now. He needed another. You all did. 

You hesitated before opening your mouth again, but the hesitation didn’t stop you asking anyway. “Steve… is there anywhere else we can go? Anywhere else you know? Somewhere safe..?” It was a stupid question. If there was somewhere else safe he knew then he’d have taken you there already. But… you had nothing to lose for asking. 

He was quiet for a long moment, which had you looking over your shoulder at him. It wasn’t an immediate ‘no.’ 

“I… there might be someone.” 

You turned fully to face him, your fingers slipping from Bucky’s hair. “Who?” 

Steve balked. “You might know  _ of _ her. Maybe. You wouldn’t know her personally.”  _ Of course it’s another ‘her,’ _ you couldn’t help thinking, before lashing yourself for the thought. Steve was friends with women. You had no reason to be jealous over one of your closest friends having other friends, regardless of gender. It wasn’t like you had staked some kind of claim on Captain America. 

“Who is she?” you asked anyway, straightening up and resting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

Steve glanced between Sam, Bucky, and you, in that order, and Sam was giving Steve a raised eyebrow. 

“Her name is Natasha.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, the fic is completely finished! Another huge thank you to my two proofreaders, without whom this thing would not have been completed without much more sweat, tears, and probably over the course of at least several more weeks!
> 
> You can look forward to the rest of the chapters coming at a rate of roughly once a week until the fic is completely uploaded, and as always, please let me know what you think, I'm always interested in hearing constructive criticism in particular! :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally never going to stop thanking my two lovely proofreaders for all their input on this behemoth, they're literal saints for putting up with my hyperactive self. Last chapter was a wild ride, so I hope you all enjoy this chapter!!

This probably wasn’t your job to do. 

You probably didn’t  _ need _ to be doing it. That didn’t stop you.

You also didn’t know whose house you were at now. Given how little Steve had told you about Natasha, you somehow doubted that this was hers,  _ or _ that she was here on a regular basis. Still, it was a nice little place. Reminded you a little bit of yours. 

Bucky flinched slightly at the touch of the warm, soaked washcloth against the puncture wounds (caused by Sharon’s projectile taser) on his back. 

“Sorry,” you murmured, not pulling it back and trying to clean the wounds as best you could. They looked slightly burned at the edges. Steve had said you could all hide here for a day, maybe two at most. It wasn’t safe to stay in one place for long, especially after the events of the day before. You could understand that. 

You could also understand why Bucky seemed to have withdrawn since then. But you weren’t going to let him withdraw. Not from you.

Carefully, you dabbed at the other scrapes or scratches visible on Bucky’s back and shoulders while they were available to you, and your eyes drifted to the heavy white scar tissue criss-crossing the junction of his left arm and shoulder. You wanted to ask. But it would only be to satisfy your own curiosity, and that was an unacceptable reason to ask under what circumstances he lost his arm. Briefly, it registered that this was the first time you’d seen him with his shirt off. 

It didn’t have the effect on you that most people would think. Yes, Bucky was in excellent physical condition. But what did admiring someone’s physique matter when they were in such a precarious place emotionally? That  _ always _ came first. 

You reached for the cotton balls and the bottle of rubbing alcohol next. You’d seen survival movies or read adventure novels where they used cheap brandy for this. The two of you had the benefit of easy access to modern medical supplies and a first aid kit. 

Granted, there wasn’t much that needed to be done. But you’d insisted on everyone cleaning up regardless, because when was the next time you’d have the chance? You’d showered last between Sam and Steve, and had done so quickly, despite the fact you wanted to take your time because Bucky was still sitting where you’d left him and he looked… numb. 

He deserved better than this. 

He’d showered at your insistence, but after fretting about him for fifteen minutes when the water had been on the whole time, Steve had knocked and gone in to find him just standing under the spray, still half-clothed. And that probably said more about his mental state to you than Steve could say. He’d gotten Bucky clean dry clothes, but you’d stated in no uncertain terms that if Steve and Sam had been patched up, Bucky would be too. 

When you’d walked back into the bathroom with Bucky, Natasha and Steve had been sitting at the table in the next room, talking in low voices. She made you uneasy, but in the way that not being able to read someone made you uncomfortable. 

You suspected she was very good at her job. 

“... Are you okay..?” you finally ventured once his (relatively minor) wounds had been cared for, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

Bucky turned his head slightly to peer at you out of the very corner of his eye, but didn’t answer. It was a stupid question, upon reflection. One you should have known better than to ask. 

“... No.” His voice was gravelly, like it had been when you’d met him. Roughened from little to no use. But then, you supposed he hadn’t really said anything to anyone since the four of you left the warehouse. 

Gentle pressure on his shoulder had Bucky swiveling around from where he sat on the edge of the tub, and you stepped a little closer so you stood between his legs. Slowly, carefully, you cupped his face in your hands and ran your thumbs over the stubble. It was almost long enough to be called a beard now. 

“What happened at SHIELD wasn’t your choice,” you said firmly, maintaining a low volume. The bathroom door was still open, after all. 

His eyebrows came down, mouth opened a fraction, but you shook your head before he could speak. You’d never cut him off normally. But this wasn’t a normal situation. 

“It wasn’t your choice,” you repeated. “You would never do that voluntarily. You know that, and I know that. Steve and Sam know that too.  _ You are not a bad person. _ You’re a good person, who may have done a few bad things that I’m not privy to. And I don’t have to be,” you told him. “I know  _ you _ , and you are a  _ good _ person, not just a decent guy. Do I make myself clear?” 

“... ____--” 

“I said, am I clear?” 

You couldn’t accept any other answer on this. He needed to know it, understand it, have that knowledge reinforced. Even if it wasn’t by you. It had to start somewhere. But you had no idea what Bucky and Steve talked about when it was just the two of them, you weren’t an eavesdropper, and for all you knew Bucky might not be getting the validation you were trying to give him now. And whether he could see that or not, he needed it before all this came to an end. 

“... Yes,” he finally murmured, letting his cheek sag against one of your hands and lifting his own to rest them on your hips. From there it was a simple step for him to rest his head against your stomach, just taking a deep breath. You ran your fingers over his (thankfully now clean) hair in an attempt to comfort him. 

You didn’t think that one motivational speech would help Bucky get over whatever issues he had piled up underneath the PTSD and regression. You didn’t even think that you were that single person who could help him with those. 

But you could damn well try. And he wasn’t shying away from you. That was a good sign and also a slight comfort for  _ you _ . You weren’t a selfish person by nature. He made you want to be-- but you couldn’t be without effort. And all of this right now was purely for his benefit. 

A quiet knock on the doorframe had you glancing up, carefully schooling your face back into a neutral expression. You didn’t know what you’d looked like before, but Steve had an almost pitying look on his face when you glanced over at him. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said softly, “But… we need to work out a game plan. We can’t do that if half the team is missing.” 

“... You’re right,” you finally said, combing your fingers through Bucky’s hair one more time before lifting his chin. His hands stayed right where they were, and for a moment you thought you knew what expression you’d been wearing when Steve came over, because you had a similar feeling about the look on Bucky’s face right then. You smoothed his hair down, offering what you hoped was a comforting smile before taking a step back and out of his immediate personal space. “Come on. Let’s go mingle,” you said, offering a hand to him. 

He stared at it for a moment, and you had to resist the urge to take it back. After the events in the SHIELD base he might be wondering why you’d want to touch his metal arm again-- in the end he took your hand with his real one, and you smiled, walking with him to the table in the other room where Sam and Natasha sat. Natasha’s eyes flicked all over both of you before returning to Steve. It was a little unnerving. 

“Can you tell Bucky and ____ what you just told us?” Steve asked her, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. It was a defensive posture that you recognized because you’d seen it on Bucky too many times. 

“SHIELD is putting together a task force, a be-all-end-all for trying to bring you guys in,” she stated. Her voice was low for a woman’s, but you liked the pitch hers sat at. “Their orders have changed. They’re not attempting to capture anymore.”

The ramifications of that last sentence sat heavily in the center of the room, over everyone’s heads. It hadn’t been a life-or-death fight before, but it was looking like it was going to turn into one. Your hand tightened on Bucky’s, and he smoothed a thumb over the back of your hand in a comforting gesture. It worked, if only a little bit. 

“What are we going to do?” you asked softly, looking between the other three. You couldn’t help here. The wise choice would be to keep you here or something while they went and fought the good fight. You could defend yourself, but not enough to keep yourself from getting captured again, or worse, killed. You could probably fire a gun if someone put a loaded one in your hand, but how good (or bad) would your aim be? Surely not better than the people who had been training with them likely for years? And if it came down to it, would you even be able to pull the trigger? Could you  _ kill _ someone? 

You didn’t want to. 

And subconsciously, you looked away abruptly. This wasn’t your fight anymore. Thinking back now, you weren’t certain it had ever been, but this was the turning point. From here on out you were dead weight. And you couldn’t do that to them. 

“Are you with us?” Steve didn’t answer your question, his being delivered to Natasha. She thought for a moment, eyes meeting the wood of the table she sat at, before returning to Steve. 

“I can’t,” she said simply, and he nodded, digesting the information.

His eyes went to you next, and you dropped your head. Beside you, Bucky shifted. You knew you couldn’t help them now. They knew that even better than you did. 

“We can’t leave you here.” Steve’s voice was matter-of-fact, and you appreciated it. If there had been any pity there you weren’t sure you would have been able to stand it. 

“You can’t take me with you, either,” you objected, finally looking back up at him. “I’m dead weight out there. There’s not going to be any more hiding and information hunting or any situation where I’m useful. I’m not--” 

Steve put up a hand, silencing you. “You’re right,” he agreed softly. “But we can’t leave you here. Soon they’re going to start combing houses that have been used as safe houses in the past. This is one of them. And they’ll find you, and--” 

“Use me to get to you,” you finished, running your free hand through your hair in distress. You couldn’t help them. You couldn’t be useful. You couldn’t do anything to fix the problem, and you were a fixer. You  _ needed _ to fix things that were wrong with people you cared about, to make their situation better. And you couldn’t do that here. “What about… what about somewhere, somewhere out of the way or something?” you tried. “Within range, if things go well--” Not  _ when _ things went well, because there was no guarantee they would. “-- but out of range if they… well. Don’t.”

Steve looked back to Natasha for an answer. She was silent for a minute more, thinking. “... The airstrip they’re gearing up at has a handful of big hangars. Any of those are out of the question, but it’s technically a military base that’s within city limits on the outside of the actual city. Set her up in one of those.” 

“None of us can walk into anywhere with security cameras,” Steve pointed out, and she came back with another suggestion. 

“Then what about a roof? It’s not unusual to see people on roofs of tall city buildings, and if it’s only for a short time it won’t hurt her. Plus they’ll do their best to avoid destroying city property, especially after those… things that Thor’s brother pulled in a few years ago. And if they do set anything off that’s that destructive, she’s out of range.” 

You looked up at Bucky then, meeting his eyes. You couldn’t lose him. 

“I need to be able to see,” you finally put in, a tinge of desperation in your voice. “I won’t-- I can’t stand not knowing. I can’t even do anything to help, but I need to know.”

“We’ll find you some binoculars,” Steve finally said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. “Though if it’s a SHIELD airstrip you likely won’t be able to see much from any vantage point anyway.” 

Bucky gently squeezed your hand and you looked up at him. You needed him to come back safe. Sam and Steve as well, but Bucky especially. You weren’t sure he could handle being captured by SHIELD again and stay the same man. Hell, they’d had HYDRA records hidden away. They knew very well what had been done to him and they still didn’t care, for which you harbored a personal grudge against them. 

The next couple of hours were a whirlwind of potential tactics, with Steve in particular trying to cover all hypotheticals and ‘what ifs’ that the group could think of. You were mostly quiet, unless they were switching to another ‘what if.’ Your anxiety over the whole thing lent you a ‘worst case scenario’ view, at which points you suggested potential routes the SHIELD operatives might take to pin them down.

Other than that, you couldn’t really do anything to help. 

There wasn’t even any tea or anything you could make them, you couldn’t do anything to take care of them or help fix their problems. So for the most part during the whole talk you were leaned against Bucky’s arm, legs crooked across his lap with your head resting on his shoulder. His other hand rested on your ankles, occasionally smoothing his thumb over the exposed skin there. He was mostly quiet too, occasionally suggesting something in a rumble that had been passed over. 

You might not get him back after this. He could be lost to you, lost to the others, lost to himself. That was a potential reality you were going to have to face. And the worst part was that it was distressingly likely. 

It was three men against a hangar or more full of trained special agents. Two of whom were specially enhanced, all three with more years experience than you’d been alive, but three men nonetheless. 

And it scared you. 

Most of your time sitting quietly consisted of studying everyone’s faces, committing them to memory. This… this felt like a ‘last stand’ kind of operation to you, and you were having to face the fact that there was a very real possibility that after this, you might never see them again. 

You weren’t sure how you would manage that. But you would need to find a way, if that came to pass. 

You looked up at Bucky again before gently resting your forehead against the side of his jaw with a quiet sigh, sliding your arms around his torso and snuggling closer. This was comforting.  _ He _ was comforting. And you were going to do everything you conceivably could to keep the universe from taking the man in your arms for itself. 

But if you were down there with them, you would only distract them because you couldn’t do much to protect yourself. That fact kept coming back to bite you. And you made the decision that, if you had the opportunity to after all this was over, you were going to learn how to fight some way or another. Now was not the time. You’d just be distracting them further. 

You hummed softly when Bucky pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Part of you almost felt pressured to take what time with him you could, because there was every chance you wouldn’t get it later. The other part of you wanted to spite that first part of you by not overdoing it. And right now, what you had with him was enough. 

Enough. That was all you ever really needed. 

You would be happy with enough. 

You were dreading what the next day would bring, with you tucked away on top of some taller building with a pair of binoculars and unable to do a damn thing to help them. You would get in the way, you knew this and had considered it already, so had they-- but you wanted so badly to be able to do something useful for them. 

But that wasn’t an option. And all of you knew that. 

When night came, Natasha left with strict instructions that if anyone at all stopped by the house, get the hell out. There were two bedrooms, each with a bed that could snugly fit two average sized people, and a couch that pulled out. You didn’t even need to ask Bucky where he and Steve would be sleeping. 

After all, Steve was the only one strong enough to wake Bucky up and hold him down until where he actually was sunk in. And once again you felt a wave of envy, wishing you possessed the physical strength necessary to do the same. 

But supporting Bucky was more important than what you wanted, and would probably remain so for the foreseeable future. 

Until the two of you were ready to go to bed though, you remained on the couch with him, curled up in his lap with your head resting against his collarbone. For the most part, you were both quiet. Occasionally you would say something as it occurred to you, but it was never something trivial, and it wasn’t for the sake of conversation. The quiet between you was worth more than trying to keep a running conversation going. 

“... You need to get some rest,” you murmured at length, inhaling deeply before lifting your head. Bucky smelled earthy to you, underlaid with something almost spicy, and it was a smell that was purely unique to him. It was comforting. 

He hummed in agreement. 

“You’re sleeping in the room with Steve?” you confirmed softly, looking him in the eye. His eyes met yours, a bottomless dark blue that spoke volumes to you after spending so much time around you. 

He was tired. So very tired. Not just in the ‘needing sleep’ sense, although that was a factor as well. 

Bucky nodded, his thumb rubbing absently over your arm where his hand had rested for the last hour or so. The metal was warm from contact with your skin by now. 

“Be careful tomorrow,” you whispered, almost begged. He would get hurt somehow. They all would, there was no avoiding that. But whether they came back to you-- whether  _ he _ came back to you-- was anyone’s guess. And you thought that maybe you’d come to terms with the fact that this night might be the last you were able to spend with him comfortably, because it very well might be. 

You took a hard breath, sliding your fingers through the almost-beard on his cheeks so you could pull his head down to yours, resting your foreheads together. “You’ve got to be careful tomorrow. If it seems like it’s too big of a risk don’t take it. Watch your back.” This was stupid. He’d been fighting for so much longer than you could imagine and he knew these things already. “Don’t let yourself get backed into a corner. Stay close to the other two.” Fuck it, you were telling him anyway. It couldn’t hurt. “Don’t waste bullets.  _ Stay alive. _ Please,” you added, your voice wavering before murmuring the next part. “For me.” 

There was a moment more of silence, then Bucky slowly-- slowly, ever so slowly-- tipped his head up to press his lips against yours. You kissed him back, gently rubbing your thumb over the too-long stubble on his cheek. It wasn’t the mind-blowing type of passionate kiss that they showed in movies, or that authors wrote about in novels, but it was nice, mostly because it was Bucky that you were kissing. It was light, a little bit awkward, but you couldn’t bring yourself to mind. 

When you parted, you exhaled softly through your nose, unable to help the smile playing at the edges of your lips. The world was falling to pieces around you, but no matter what happened, you would have this memory. 

It wasn’t all that you wanted, but it would have to be enough. 

“You should sleep.” 

His voice was low, more of a rumble than an actual sound, and you could feel it vibrate through your torso. You huffed at him, tucking your face into his neck and inhaling.  _ Sleep, after that? Right. Sure thing. _ You also wanted every minute you could get with him, especially since your time with him might be coming to a close. There was every chance that was the case. Bucky knew it as well as you did, and maybe that’s why he let you ignore his request for a few more minutes for you to get some sleep. It wasn’t for long enough, not nearly, but he let you. In that time you pressed a kiss to his cheek, before snuggling just a little bit closer and letting your head drop back to his shoulder.

“Come on.” 

Without more of a warning, Bucky stood, lifting you with him. You squeaked, catching his shirt in your fingers before you realized that he did not, in fact, intend to drop you, but was walking towards the bedroom that was across from the one that he and Steve would be occupying. You turned your face into his chest for a moment, only releasing the fabric of his shirt when he laid you down on the bed. 

He smoothed his metal hand over your hair and pressed a kiss to your forehead, and the simple protective gesture made you smile regardless. You caught his hand when he turned to leave and he paused, glancing back at you. 

“Sleep well, Bucky,” you murmured, running your thumb over his knuckles before releasing his hand. You both knew he likely wouldn’t, but there was also the chance that he might. And maybe it was a trick of the (honestly questionable) light, but you thought you saw him smile as he left, closing the door behind him.

As you pulled the sheets back on the bed that looked like it had never been used, you had a feeling you wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, despite (or perhaps because of) the bubbly feeling running through your veins. It was racing against the anxiety of what the next day was going to bring, and when they ran into each other, you weren’t at all sure what you were supposed to be feeling. Was it possible to feel too many things at once? It seemed that way to you. 

And more than anything else, you  _ wanted. _ You wanted to go back to Italy, to a little house in a little town where the population numbered about the amount of change you had in your wallet back home. You wanted to lay in bed with him in the mornings, letting the sun rise so it would give you time to cling to him and just  _ rest. _ You wanted him to get a good night’s sleep with you. You wanted to trade teasing kisses while the two of you made breakfast, before going to the market together to get food to make for lunch or dinner. You wanted to take him and run, get away from SHIELD.

But if they’d found you before, they could find you again, and there was no conceivable place on earth you could think of that might be good for him. Because his health, both mental and physical, was what mattered no matter what you wanted. 

You turned your face into the pillow with a sigh. Your mind was racing. There wouldn’t be much sleep for you tonight. 

What were you supposed to  _ do _ to help them?

The next morning didn’t give you answers either. Breakfast-- if you could call it that-- was a quiet affair, mostly filled with granola bars and the boys strapping up their weapons and hiding them every place they could think of that was still rated G on television. It was only when Bucky readjusted his grenade crossbody belt that you stepped in, reaching up to cup his cheek. Your face must have said everything you were thinking right then. 

“I’ll come back,” he swore quietly, both gloved hands cupping each of your cheeks. “I’ll come back to you.” And right then, that was all you needed to hear. Was there a cynical little part of you calling him on his bullshit? Absolutely, that part of you would never fade. But the majority of you  _ wanted _ to believe him--  _ did _ believe him. And wishful thinking had no place here. 

You lifted your hands to wrap around his fingers, biting your tongue as hard as you could in an effort not to cry. He didn’t need what might be his last memory of you to be you with tears in your eyes. 

You couldn’t leave him with that. 

“Be  _ careful, _ ” you stressed, hesitating for only a moment before stretching up on your toes to give him a kiss. It wasn’t more than a peck really, but actions spoke louder than words ever would, and not just for you. 

“I will,” he murmured against your lips, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. The expression in his eyes this time… it was different, you’d never seen his eyes this intense before. It took your breath away. The look he had now was almost dangerous, but not in a way that would threaten you. More make you pity those who got in his way today. “I promise.”

You took a short breath, squeezing his hands before releasing them and taking a step back. You’d had your minute more that you wanted, and it was time for them to get started. Time to stop distracting them. 

“I’m going to take you up to the top of a building about a mile away,” Sam told you, stepping forward. He had those funky goggles in his hand, currently being stowed in his pocket. The idea was to get there mostly undiscovered  _ before _ pulling out the big guns. 

You nodded, heart in your throat. If you opened your mouth again you might ask them to stay, try to convince them to run, and that couldn’t happen. You couldn’t let yourself do that. You couldn’t do that to them.

* * *

Bucky had gone with you and Sam up to the top of the concrete-and-glass office building. It was innocuous enough to escape SHIELD’s notice, or so you all hoped. You’d held hands the entire time, more for the sense of comfort than anything, or so you thought. He was in a slightly bulky jacket and a ball cap, his usual get-up, and he flew mostly under the radar. It wasn’t unusual at this time of year to see ball caps and jackets. The gloves might have been a personal choice and nobody would look twice.

Upon reaching the roof of the too-tall building, you peered over the side, noting how far it was from the ground. It would be a hell of a fall.

“____.” 

You turned your head to Bucky when he spoke, making an inquiring noise as he reached into an inner pocket of his jacket with his free hand.You glimpsed his vest underneath with extra ammo and a handful of grenades, and your heart clenched. 

His gloved hand emerged with a scope, a long one, probably off a rifle if you had to guess, which he then pressed into your hand and closed your fingers around it. 

It wasn’t a set of binoculars, but it was almost as good. And you couldn’t help an almost-smile at the realization that he’d thought enough about you to find a spare scope in the time they had to prepare that morning and the evening before. Carefully, so carefully, you wrapped your arms around him and rested your head against his chest, taking a shaky breath. The feeling of his arms snaking around your shoulders in return was probably one of the best feelings in the world right then, and you inhaled deeply. 

You didn’t think he would walk away from this. You hoped, of course. But the pessimist in you wouldn’t shut the hell up, and it was starting to get the better of you. 

“We’ve gotta go.” 

Sam’s voice was low, but not abrasive. He was right, of course-- he and Bucky needed to leave. But you couldn’t make yourself let go, not until one of Bucky’s hands smoothed over your hair before both moved to your shoulders, holding you back a little. You met his eyes for a moment and one gloved hand curved around your cheek. 

And then he and Sam were moving for the fire escape, and they were gone, and all the air in your lungs escaped you in a hard sob. 

The only bright side to this was that you wouldn’t be around to distract them. 

But would that be enough? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I love hearing what you guys think, please don't be afraid to leave your opinions!


	14. Chapter 14

The distant sound of gunfire and the shrieks of alarmed civilians started about twenty minutes later. 

What going on the attack was supposed to accomplish, you weren’t sure. You hadn’t asked, unsure if you’d wanted to know. But the night before Natasha had mentioned the sort of surroundings they’d been keeping ‘Zemo’ in (maybe Zemo was some kind of weapon, something they had to destroy, but how Bucky factored in you weren’t sure), and that had been what they were planning around. 

Whatever it was, ‘Zemo’ was causing trouble and was the main driving reason for SHIELD’s attempts to capture Bucky-- and as you’d found out last night, their ‘capture’ orders were off, making things infinitely more dangerous for the boys. And for you, though you were less concerned about your own wellbeing than you were for theirs. 

For the moment, though, you wished you’d paid more attention to what ‘Zemo’ was. 

A ground-shaking  _ boom _ radiated outwards from the edges of the walled airfield with the helicopter pad that you could see from here, and the roof of one of the hangars slowly-- it seemed so slow from all the way back here-- collapsed inwards. You forced yourself to take a breath past a tight chest, settling at the edge of the railing around the roof of your building and lifting the scope to your eye. 

You realized that the scope Bucky had given you must have been off of some kind of quality sniper rifle at best guess, because it was giving you a sparkling clear view of the walls almost a mile away. You hadn’t known it would go that far, and you felt a surge of affection for the man down there. 

There wasn’t much to see right that second, just walls and a cloud of dust from the collapsing hangar, but the sound of gunfire reached you easily. You tried to disregard the frenzied honking and shrill cries from the people below, heading away from the madness. But that was part of Steve’s plan. By going to one of SHIELD’s air bases, they were shielded from prying eyes-- as well as shielding civilians from the worst of the battle. 

It was one of the most ‘Steve’ moves you’d seen today. 

And, you realized with a surge of fear, it might also be one of the last ones if things didn’t go well. 

You yelped as, with little warning, something  _ zoomed _ over your head by a few meters, and you looked up in a panic to see what looked like a suit of armor in easily identifiable shades of red and gold. It was followed quickly by another, less gaudily-colored suit that looked much the same, and both angled themselves downwards towards the chaos that you could only see part of. 

Briefly, you wondered at the entire story, and what Steve and co. had done in the first place in order to piss off Iron Man, but then decided it didn’t really matter. What was happening was happening, and your not having been tuned into the news for the last several weeks wasn’t something you could fix right  _ now _ . 

All you could do was hope for their safety. 

Hope for  _ his _ safety. 

You heard the helicopter coming a few moments before it actually came into view. It had no place to land, of course, but you realized as your heart leapt into your throat, it didn’t  _ need _ to. The tip of the gun barrel you could see poking out the side of the helicopter as it hovered over the chaos spoke for itself. 

It swerved then, and you could just barely see something small, something  _ tiny _ , moving in a perfect arc to land in the helicopter itself. Another erratic movement later, and the flying machine exploded, crashing to the ground in a wild spiral in raining chunks of flame and metal. You didn’t want to think about the fate of the pilot(s) and their gunmen, because it was all too clear. But you couldn’t dredge up much sympathy for them, either, and you mutely applauded Bucky on his aim with grenades. 

And in that moment, you made a decision. It was a stupid decision in all likelihood but that didn’t stop you from making it. 

Hastily stuffing the scope in the pocket of your jacket and zipping it, you dashed for the fire escape, taking the steps downwards as fast as you could without tripping yourself. Falling from this high up would ruin your plan. 

And you didn’t even have a full plan, not  _ really _ . 

You weren’t sure what you could do to help. 

But you needed to get closer. You were certain in your knowledge that you couldn’t do anything to help them. Yet, you couldn’t see enough from where you were, even with the scope. You couldn’t stand being that far away and helpless. It just wouldn’t do. 

So you would go to them, instead of waiting for them to come to you… the latter of which had the potential to never happen, in a worst-case scenario. And you weren’t going to hang out and wait and see if it turned out for better or for worse. 

You wouldn’t be able to help them. 

But you were making the (potentially stupid) decision to go over there anyway. They couldn’t  _ honestly _ have expected you to stay put, could they? Except that they kind of had, they  _ trusted _ you to value your life enough to stay  _ away _ from the worst of the danger and  _ here you were _ doing the  _ exact opposite _ of what they  _ needed _ you to do-- 

_ Oh, shut the hell up. _

Your feet hit the asphalt and you started running, sliding this way and dodging that way in an attempt to navigate the sea of people still heading in the opposite direction of the walled-in base. Even as you watched, a section of the wall cracked neatly up the middle, then came falling over in a slow, steady arc to land with a cringe-worthy  _ crunch _ on a couple of expensive sports cars lined up on the street, where their owners had seen fit to park them earlier that day. 

But more importantly, now you had a way in that didn’t involve dodging security measures or trying to scale that godforsaken wall. 

Anyone with a SHIELD uniform wasn’t paying attention to civilians, other than trying not to shoot them if they were in the way. The less-than-sympathetic side of you noted how using people as meat shields worked in movies, but the thought was gone as soon as it appeared. None of the three would do that. They were better men than that. 

You didn’t even have to do much aside from keep your head down as you clambered over the rubble of that wall section, trying to move quickly and not stay on any unsteady parts of the debris longer than you had to. It took only a few minutes, but it felt like so much longer, and once you were on the interior of the facility, you actually stopped to question the wisdom of this decision.

Bullets were flying, and a fair section of the first (now-caved-in) hangar that you’d seen fall earlier was in flames. This was no place for you. What had you been thinking?! 

But from the SHIELD-uniform-clad bodies laying strewn about, the worst seemed to be over. Not all of them seemed to be dead, which you were glad for. Mindlessly killing people who happened to be in the way would wreak havoc on the boys’ respective consciences, and you suspected for Bucky, more so. You tried not to look at them too closely, regardless. 

It wasn’t difficult to slink your way across what was mostly open ground, spotted with rubble here and there and occasionally, pieces of the ground looked torn up or burned. If you went slowly, there wasn’t much to trip over and you had the time to find the safest route to the next place to stop for a moment. What proved harder was trying to anticipate where bullets or any kind of projectile was going to hit, and try to avoid that. 

You just had to see them. Know that they were safe. 

They wouldn’t appreciate that you were putting yourself in danger for this, and you had a moment to almost smile before something exploding behind you made you jump forward, racing for a safe corner created by two adjacent concrete barriers that had been knocked to the side of their original place when the wall fell. You hid there for a long moment, listening to the sound of guns going off at a rapid rate, occasionally punctuated by something exploding, and a sound you quickly came to associate with Iron Man’s blasters after seeing him and the second suit firing at something-- or some _ one _ \-- just out of your view. 

Then you heard a loud, hollow-sounding  _ clank _ , like metal against metal, and Iron Man was catapulted to the other short side of the airfield, slamming against the wall of the remaining hangar before regaining his aerial balance. 

That was about when a shield came whizzing across that space to lodge itself in the glowing circle of light in the chest of his suit, and he dropped. You had a moment to feel a twinge of sympathy, but if he was out for blood where Steve and co. were concerned, he deserved what he got. Then from out of your field of view, you saw two men you knew well charge him, but he was back on his feet again. 

He didn’t stay that way. In a show of teamwork that you would applaud later (for now your heart was in your throat), Steve and Bucky whipped the shield between them, bouncing off of various parts of armor until he got a half second to fight back, sending Steve flying back out of your view. At that, Bucky surged forwards, his left hand’s fingers digging into the edges of the glowing device in Iron Man’s chest. 

A bolt of energy exploded, bright enough to have you squeezing your eyes shut for a long moment. When you next opened them, you couldn’t help a soft cry-- what remained of the hangar was collapsing, and you couldn’t see either of the two men anymore. Only one of the two left there mattered to you, and you couldn’t see him. 

You scrambled to your feet, scraping your palms on what was left of the concrete in your efforts to head in the direction of the collapsed second hangar. Clouds of dust and smoke from the blast (and corresponding collapse) still choked the air, making it impossible to see anything. The area was eerily silent now, save for your coughing. 

“Buck?” you called out in a hoarse voice when you could manage. There was a grunt, the sound of movement. And through the haze you could see someone lurch to their feet, amidst the piles of rubble and other bodies. You hesitated. It could just be someone responding to a voice. But… the set of the shoulders, the height and the outline… your heart recognized him before your mind did, and you raced towards the indistinct figure, launching into Bucky’s arms with a helpless noise of relief. He caught you with one arm, emitting a low sound you couldn’t quite identify and staggering back a step, and you stepped back immediately to inspect him. 

His weight was mostly held on one leg, likely due to the very obvious bullet wound in the front of his right thigh. His clothes were scraped or torn in a few places, with blood here and there, but nothing life-threatening. One arm still held your shoulder, partially for support, and you immediately stepped back under his arm to help Bucky stay upright. It was then that you noticed one arm was all he had, and you gaped at the mess of frayed wires and jagged, torn metal that was all that was left of his metal arm. 

‘Are you okay’ seemed like such an absurd question to ask. 

Now was not the time, you reminded yourself, helping him as fast as he could limp away from the rubble and carnage. 

“____!” 

Your head whipped around at the sound of your name, but it was Steve jogging towards you now. He looked worse for wear than Bucky did, and he didn’t have his shield anymore. You’d ask later how everything went down. For now there would be cops to deal with-- and potential reinforcements, whether or not they were successful. 

“Where’s--”

“Here.” Sam landed less than gracefully on the ground within range, stumbling as he did so. In the instant before his wings folded into their backpack case, you saw a few ‘feathers’ were missing, which might explain why his landing had been a bit off. 

“Did you do it?” 

Your voice came out a little bit sharp from anxiety, but Steve nodded anyway. 

“Yes. Zemo’s in someone else’s custody right now-- we won’t hear from him again.” 

“What happens now?” you asked urgently. You’d heard sirens on the edge of the walls for some time now, unable to get any closer. 

“Now, we need to go,” he said, nodding at a hole in the wall just big enough for you to crawl through while supporting Bucky. In his defense, he didn’t look much like he could support himself right then. On the other side, you could see a black SUV pull up and the driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a familiar blonde woman. 

“Quick, get in!!” Sharon called, and the four of you (well, three of you, since you and Steve were the ones mostly moving Bucky right now) booked it for the gap. In short order, you were all piled in and the vehicle drove off with a theatrical screech of tires on asphalt, joining the throng of cars driving madly away from the train wreck that you were all leaving behind. You couldn’t help looking back, but with some of the crazy turns as your blonde driver navigated the streets of the city, the carnage was quickly lost from view. 

You looked to your left, at Bucky, and at what was left of his metal arm. He looked… not fatigued, although that was certainly true, but… distant. And it worried you. Swallowing hard, you made an executive decision that now was not the right time to address it, and instead wound your fingers through the digits on Bucky’s right hand, resting your head against his shoulder. This comfort wasn’t for you, although it helped. You thought that something small, something ‘just enough’ would help bring him back down to earth. 

You didn’t know where he was at mentally right now. But he was responsive, and he wasn’t wearing the blank, dead expression that still haunted your dreams, so you knew he was still in there somewhere. And that was what mattered.

* * *

 

An hour’s quiet drive later, Sharon was pulling into the driveway (and by extension, garage) of a small, nondescript house in a neighborhood where the houses were too spaced out to call it a suburb. It was more back roads you’d been travelling down than anything, and you groaned quietly as you straightened up. Bucky glanced down at you, then out at the house. Steve and Sam got out of the car, still on alert but also still looking like they’d been through hell. 

The man next to you did, too. 

Sharon followed suit, and you turned your face into Bucky’s neck for a moment, inhaling slowly before exhaling at the same pace. Everyone was alive. The worst was over. 

It had to be.

You slid out of the backseat with Bucky on your heels, but you neatly placed yourself underneath his arm anyway to support him. He could walk without help, you were sure, but it was hurting him when it didn’t have to be. He didn’t complain, which might have been more worrying than the bullet wound in his thigh. 

“Where are we?” you asked softly, after the house had been cleared. Steve turned to you, taking your place under Bucky’s arm and helping him to the couch, where he reclined with a low, pained grunt. 

“Safe house,” he responded. 

You frowned. “Not a SHIELD one?” 

“No, one of mine.” 

Your frown worsened. “You have a safe house?” 

Steve nodded, peeling the fabric of Bucky’s pant leg back from the bullet wound. A bottle of water was nearby and he used it to dampen the area, making Bucky wince and making it easier to remove the scraps of fabric sticking to dried blood. “Several. SHIELD doesn’t know. I’d like to keep it that way.” 

“... Why did we never come here then?” you demanded, shrugging off the cautioning hand Sam put on your shoulder. “You’re telling me we could have avoided getting  _ him _ caught up and imprisoned the  _ whole time _ \--” 

“We needed more information than we could have gotten here, ____,” Steve interrupted, taking the pair of tweezers Sharon handed him before she retreated to locate the rest of the medical stuff. Bucky’s right hand fisted in the couch cushion as he started the process of removing the bullet, and you could see the muscle in his jaw jumping. 

You, for your part, were still angry. You all could have avoided getting Bucky into that fucking situation in the SHIELD base, avoided putting him through all that, and Steve had never  _ once _ mentioned it?! 

When he spoke again, he sounded weary. “Just leave it, ___.” 

You snapped your jaw shut. That was good advice. You covered your face with your hands for a moment. “... I’m… sorry, Steve. That… that was uncalled for,” you managed, sinking into the chair in the corner. Sam patted your shoulder before proceeding to shrug off his backpack. 

“It’s alright,” Steve replied without looking away from his task. You had the feeling that the fabric on the couch would never be the same, not with how Bucky’s fingers were digging into it. “We’ve all had a long day. Speaking of which--” 

He removed the tweezers with the bullet held carefully between the ends, letting both drop on the coffee table. Nothing in here was new, at least. Steve’s eyes went to you now as Bucky relaxed. 

“-- Why didn’t you wait for us?” 

You scowled. Part of you wanted to bitch about how he had no right asking you that. The other part felt remorseful for trying to take the shit out of him a minute before. And the third part of you just wanted to give him a straight answer. “... I…” You didn’t have a straight answer, though. You hadn’t thought things out, and that was the long and the short of it. 

You dropped your eyes to your lap. “... I got scared for you.” 

“So you head  _ towards _ the guns and destruction?” Steve’s voice wasn’t caustic, though that might have made you feel better. All you heard in his tone was disappointment and possibly worry. 

“Yes,” you said, looking him in the eye. “It’s not that I didn’t think you guys could handle it. You had it handled,” you said honestly. You weren’t going to lie to his face. He deserved better, and you just weren’t that kind of person. So you were owning up and taking responsibility. “Even with the scope Bucky gave me--” You gestured to him. “-- I couldn’t see anything. And-- Steve, I couldn’t see what was going on. I was scared for you.” It took every ounce of willpower at your disposal to not let the defensiveness you felt into your voice. That wouldn’t help this situation. 

Steve crossed his arms, and you recognized the pose. You raised an eyebrow on him. “Gonna go all macho, ‘you’re not allowed to leave the house anymore’ on me,  _ dad _ ?” Some parts of you, like your sarcasm, would never die, however. 

His eyes softened a little bit. You were glad. You didn’t want to have a stare down with Captain America. You didn’t want to stare down your friend, either. 

“I’m sorry, Steve,” you murmured, and his arms uncrossed so he could rub his hand over his face. 

“I know you are. Just… I’m glad you’re safe.” 

You offered him a tentative smile before looking between Bucky and Sam. “I’m glad you’re all  _ alive. _ ” 

“So are we,” Sam chuckled from behind you. And like that, the tense moment was over. You shifted to the end of the couch, sitting just within the range of Bucky’s feet while Steve went to fetch medical supplies. Funny how the safe houses so far seemed to be well-stocked with them. Then again, you supposed they probably had to be. 

A nudge at the side of your thigh made you look over with raised eyebrows. It was then that Bucky chose to (carefully, ever so carefully) rest his booted feet in your lap, and you hummed in amusement, patting his shin. “Payback, huh?” you asked softly, and he grunted in agreement. You glanced down at his leg again-- the bleeding from the removal of the bullet had almost stopped again, but it still seemed to be causing him a fair amount of pain. You wished you could do something to help. 

But just like you didn’t know combat skills enough to help, you didn’t know enough of medical skills to help with a wound this bad. Cleaning cuts and scrapes, you could do. But this was obviously much more dire than that. 

It hadn’t and wouldn’t kill him, thankfully. And you briefly felt a wave of gratitude for whatever forces made this bullet land in his leg instead of his head. Or his heart. 

You picked at the laces of his boots, pulling the knot loose on each before sliding them off and letting them hit the ground with a  _ thunk _ next to the couch. However, you were jerked back to the events of the present when Bucky tapped the heel of his good leg on your thigh, recapturing your attention. He was mostly reclined on the couch right now, and you thought his eyes had been closed, but one was cracked open and focused on you. “Told you.” 

“Hm?” 

“I told you I’d come back to you.” 

You smiled then, reaching a hand out for his and wrapping your fingers around the ones that Bucky still had left. “You kept your promise,” you murmured, practically glowing. 

Sam, across the room, cleared his throat in a painfully obvious manner. He was currently leaning against the doorway into the hall, arms crossed with one raised eyebrow. This was not a stare down you were afraid of, and you met his gaze coolly. Finally, he huffed, pushing off of the doorframe and presumably going to join Steve, while muttering something unflattering and about how he didn’t get paid enough for this. 

“You don’t get paid for this at all!” you called after him, and you were rewarded by a low, throaty chuckle from the other end of the couch. You offered Bucky a sheepish grin, noting the way his eyes were turned up at the corners. It had been too long since you’d seen him smile. Far, far too long. 

Sharon and Steve soon returned with a bundle of medical supplies that caused Bucky to groan. Your confused look was met with a brief explanation. “It will heal by itself soon enough. It doesn’t need stitches and fifty layers of bandages,” Bucky muttered to you darkly, and you giggled. 

“Nope. It just takes being blown off the side of a marina to require fifty layers of bandages, and a pair of helping hands,” you teased gently. Bucky scowled at you then, but you could tell by the relaxed corners of his eyes that he was joking. It felt natural, to joke with him, though up to now you’d been actively avoiding doing so. He was getting better, you thought, that this seemed okay. “Potentially unwilling helping hands, but helping hands nonetheless. And look, you have at least four available to you now!” you pointed out (less than) helpfully, gesturing to Sharon and Steve, both of whom gave the two of you a confused look. 

You were giggling too much to explain.

After Bucky’s leg was taken care of, using one of the several burn phones that Steve had stored here, three pizzas were swiftly ordered and paid for out of the cash that Steve had also thought to hide in the safe house. He really thought of everything, if one took into account the small extra bedrooms and the… honestly impressive stash of medical supplies. 

Since you were least likely to be immediately recognized in the event someone saw you, you answered the door and paid the delivery guy when the pizzas arrived almost an hour later. Hey, you all had to eat at some point. Chatting over pizza turned into you stretched out on the couch next to Bucky, Sam and Sharon comparing notes on having to deal with Steve, and Steve putting up with it all with good humor. It felt… normal, and after the chaos of the last several weeks in particular, you couldn’t help but appreciate it while it lasted. 

After a while, you hummed, resting your head on his arm. It was a familiar gesture, maybe a bit too familiar, but you reasoned that he didn’t look uncomfortable, nor did he say anything, so maybe it was okay. After all, if it wasn’t okay he wouldn’t be smiling that quiet, little smile like he was now. 

It was only when you dozed off while nestled against Bucky that he cleared his throat quietly, gaining the attention of the other three. 

“It’s late,” he stated, eyes flicking between the other three occupants of the room. Your head rested on his bicep and his lower arm and hand curled around to rest on your forehead in a protective manner, and it was only then that they noticed you were asleep. 

“I’ll carry her to bed,” Steve began, starting to rise, but Bucky shook his head once. 

“Leave her,” he requested softly. At Steve’s skeptical look he added, “I’m not sleeping, Steve. She’s safe here.” 

He relented then, and in a low voice instructed Sharon and Sam on where the bedrooms were, and to take their pick-- he would take the third, and didn’t need to say aloud that if Bucky decided he needed to sleep, would be joining him. 

Bucky nodded at a blanket tossed over the back of the couch, and Sharon helpfully stepped in to spread it over the two of you, gently tucking it in around your shoulders since Bucky couldn’t do it himself without rousing you. He nodded at her in thanks, and she smiled, retreating to the staircase following Sam to get situated for bed. Steve remained for a few minutes more, looking between your sleeping face and Bucky, who stared back at him with unfathomable blue eyes. 

“... Do you need anything else?” Steve finally asked in a low voice, and Bucky shook his head. “You’re sure you won’t fall asleep with her?” 

“I’m sure,” Bucky said firmly. “I don’t sleep well anyway, Steve, you know that.” 

“I do,” he agreed, “But I don’t want to take any risks.” 

“There won’t be any,” he replied. “I won’t take chances with her safety.” 

Those words seemed to satisfy Steve, and he sighed, offering a slight smile. “I’ll see you in the morning, Buck.” 

“Night, Steve.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have my lovely proofreaders to thank, yet again, because they're wonderful and helped me fix all the little errors and phrasing issues in this chapter just like the last couple, and going out to the end of the fic! 
> 
> And as always, thanks for reading, I love hearing what you guys think. :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. :) It was loads of fun! And as always, massive thanks to my two amazing proofreaders for making this that much legible and tweaking lots of small mistakes I've made~

Sam was the first one awake the next morning, if one didn’t take into account the fact that Bucky hadn’t slept at all. He kept his word with Steve-- he wouldn’t sleep with you there. Sam wandered into the main room, still groggy, but stopped when he saw Bucky laying on his back on the couch. You were tucked neatly against his side, sleeping soundly with one arm draped over Bucky’s midsection. What was left of his mechanical arm was pressed into the couch cushion, affording you with slightly more room than if an arm had still been there. His real arm was wrapped around your shoulders, keeping you from falling off the couch as he had been the entire night. 

Sam shook his head at the two of you, but proceeded to clean up the empty pizza boxes and paper plates from the night before without a word. Apparently the two men were in agreement about letting you sleep a little bit longer. 

When Sharon came downstairs a few minutes later, she helped, and Steve emerged not long after, with hair sticking up at odd angles on one side of his head and eyes still glazed with sleep. You were the only one still sleeping, and Bucky brushed your hair back from your forehead, determining that it was time for you to get up. There was nothing more to be gained by sleeping longer. 

“____. Wake up,” he murmured, nudging you and patting your cheek. 

Your response was an inhuman grumble, followed immediately by turning your face further into his shoulder. Steve hid a smile. 

“Come on. Everyone’s awake,” Bucky tried again. It was clear he wasn’t used to waking someone up with the gentle approach, but he was trying. 

This morning however, you just weren’t having it, and you ‘harrumphed’ while tightening your grip across his torso. The skin around his eyes tightened slightly as you unknowingly pressed your arms into a cracked rib or two from yesterday. 

“____,” he said in a lower and distinctly more serious tone, “Get up or I’ll roll you off the couch.”

That woke you up, and you sat upright on the couch, swaying slightly as you yawned. Normally you were easier to wake than this. But then, everyone had a long day yesterday, you included. “Who’s awake and where’s my coffee..?” you mumbled, blearily staring at a mug of coffee that Sharon held out to you for a long moment before taking it. “Mm, thanks,” you hummed with a blissful smile at the smell. That would help wake you up. 

However, the coffee didn’t have a chance to do anything of the sort, because at that moment there came a short knock at the front door. You froze, staring at it, while Sam and Steve slipped back into the kitchen as the back room of this floor, and Sharon fit her pistol in the hip holster she’d put back on at some point this morning. You glanced at Bucky to see his reaction-- his face was hard, and unforgiving. You gently placed your coffee on the end table and stood, wobbling slightly. 

“Do you want me to get it..?” you offered quietly, glancing between Steve and Sharon. “They’ll be less likely to know my face right off the bat.” 

After a moment’s deliberation, Steve nodded once, earning himself a blistering glance from Bucky behind your back. You walked to the door on the balls of your feet to minimize vibrations and stood to the side to check through the peephole. A dark-skinned man in a black suit with silver embroidery stood on the other side, waiting patiently. A woman with a shaved head and a no-nonsense expression stood next to and slightly behind him, and a sleek black sedan sat in the driveway, presumably theirs. You glanced back to the others with a confused frown and a shrug, but opened the door anyway with an innocent expression. You made sure to keep it just closed enough that it wouldn’t be clear anyone else was home. 

“Hello, can I help you?” you asked, like any good house-owning adult would. 

“If you could, I would appreciate it,” the man said. His lightly accented English skimmed lightly over his vowels, and the accent wasn’t like any you were familiar with. Both of his arms were tucked neatly behind his back.

You cocked your head at him as an invitation to continue speaking, trying very hard to ignore the calculating look that the woman beside him was giving you. She was dangerous, you had a feeling, and you shifted on your toes. Your heart was going a million miles an hour. 

“I wish to speak with Steven Rogers, if he is available.” 

Your heart nearly stopped. 

Quickly, you let a confused frown flicker across your face. Holding the expression for too long was a dead giveaway. You never really  _ liked _ lying, but you knew  _ how _ to very well. Years of studying people and the last few months of reading facial expressions helped your knowledge of what would pass for a lie, and what would get you caught. “Steven Rogers? Not the same one as Captain America?” you questioned, letting doubt tint your voice. “I saw the news yesterday. Isn’t he wanted? Gone rogue? Something like that?” you lied easily. You added a small amount of suspicion to your expression for good measure.

The man on the doorstep chuckled, a rich, cultured sound that was nice to listen to. You knew a chuckle that you liked hearing more. “Something like that, yes,” he agreed. “May I speak with him?” 

You shook your head in confusion. “I don’t know why you’d think a national icon would be in my house, out of all the houses in range of that horrible accident yesterday--” Yes, ‘horrible accident,’ that sounded like a lie the authorities would make up. “-- But he’s not here. If he were I think I’d call the cops,” you added sourly. “He’s a  _ fugitive, _ and I don’t want to get in trouble with law enforcement.” 

He nodded slowly, eyes trained on you. “And yet, you’re harboring him in your house. Once more, may I speak with him?” 

There was still the chance he was just fishing. You opened your mouth to tell him to (in much nicer terms) essentially get lost, when a muscular arm reached over your head, pulling the door open the rest of the way. 

“Your majesty,” Steve greeted, a little wearily. The stranger’s mouth pulled up at the corners, exposing a flash of white teeth in something that registered as a smile, but didn’t feel at all humorous. 

“Captain. I… owe you many apologies,” he said, startling you. “May we come in?” 

After a moment of Steve staring at him, during which you glanced between the two men in confusion (also, ‘your majesty?!’ what the hell??) and stayed quiet, he finally nodded, touching your shoulder as an indication to step out of the way. You did so, more confused than when you’d answered the door in the first place. 

‘His majesty’ stepped into the entryway and past the two of you with a nod, the woman you took now to be his bodyguard keeping to his heels. Steve closed the door behind them, sighing quietly as they took in the defensive stances of everyone in the next room. No guns were drawn, but they were within easy reach, and you hesitated before shifting to stand next to Bucky, who was on his feet with a guarded expression. It wasn’t as dark as earlier, though, and you had a moment to feel relieved. 

Shortly after making eye contact (and greeting most of the occupants), ‘his majesty’ turned to Bucky with a somber expression. “Sergeant Barnes. I would like to offer my most sincere apologies for my behavior and my actions,” he said simply, offering his right hand. “I was wrong.” 

Bucky stared at it for a long minute before reaching out, shaking his hand once before retracting it. Almost cautiously, his fingers found yours after that, and you let them slide between your own gratefully, giving his hand a small squeeze. 

“... How did you find us?” Steve finally questioned, leaning against the doorway of the living room. He wasn’t at ease, but didn’t seem to be aggressive, either, which kind of set the mood for the others.

The stranger turned to him. “A tracker,” he explained briefly, gesturing to someone’s jacket that had been thrown across the back of the chair at some point yesterday. “I wish to speak with you about Helmut Zemo and the fate of Sergeant Barnes. Mister Stark is… recovering, as is Colonel Rhodes.”

You wanted so badly to ask about who the hell this was, and what he meant by Zemo. The name was the same as the one Natasha had mentioned before, and you still had no idea what it was. Also, Bucky wasn’t going anywhere, not if you had anything to say about it. He deserved better than the lot he’d been dealt, and you’d fight tooth and nail to keep him from going through any of it again. 

Your thoughts must have shown on your face, though, because Steve’s eyes flicked to you and then Sam said, “I think a good place to start would be introducing yourself, your majesty. ____ looks like she’s about to mutiny.” 

You scowled lightly at him, but your eyes flicked back to the stranger and his bodyguard, still standing in the center of the room. “An explanation  _ would _ be most welcome, yes,” you said guardedly. 

The man turned gracefully, chin lifted as it had been when you’d first opened the door. “I am King T’Challa of Wakanda, and this is General Okoye of the Dora Milaje. I wish we could meet under better circumstances,” he stated. 

For your part, you were trying to close your mouth. Okay. Royalty. That was cool too. How the hell did Steve know him?! Or Bucky for that matter?? 

“____ ______,” you managed, offering your right hand. He took it-- the General did not, instead offering you a cool nod that you returned. 

“Pleasure,” T’Challa responded with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. After everyone was seated again-- Sam declined, choosing to stand, as did General Okoye-- he began a lengthy explanation that you assumed was mostly for your benefit. Everyone else here seemed to be in on the deal. “Miss _____, do you recall the…  _ incident _ in Sokovia, a few years ago?”

“Yes,” you said cautiously. You weren’t entirely sure how it applied here. All you knew about the Avengers after the fact was that they’d kind of… faded. You hadn’t asked Steve about it, and he hadn’t offered any information. 

“There is a man by the name of Helmut Zemo,” he continued. “He lost his family in the disaster, and… went mad with the desire for revenge. He is the one behind the explosion in the United Nations meeting several months ago that killed my father.” You nodded, keeping pace with his explanation. You could feel a little sympathy for him, the memory obviously still hurt, but you had to admire the decorum he kept. “He framed Sergeant Barnes--” You looked up at the man seated next to you on the couch. His face was all but inscrutable. “-- And infiltrated SHIELD in an attempt to destroy the Avengers, from the inside out.” 

“He may have succeeded,” Steve put in from the other loveseat. 

T’Challa glanced briefly at him before continuing. “He was present when you and Sergeant Barnes were captured several days ago, and I suspect his influence is behind the…  _ actions _ of Sergeant Barnes while in the facility.” Bucky’s grip tightened on your hand, and you brought your other hand up to cover his, rubbing your fingers over his knuckles in a manner you hoped was comforting. “After yesterday, Helmut Zemo is in Wakandan hands, and will be returning home before we do to face  _ our _ justice.” 

“Does SHIELD know?” Steve’s voice was low. 

T’Challa’s lips twitched at the corners. “No.” 

Your mind was whirling. You’d never known anything about this man. Then again… it had never really seemed like a good time to ask the boys why they were running, and to learn the entire story behind it. So maybe it wasn’t such a huge shock that you hadn’t heard much of him before now. That was on you for never asking, you decided.

“Vengeance consumed him,” the king continued, a dark edge in his voice. His eyes… to you, there was so much there. So much pain. “And… I am done letting it consume me.” The words sounded final. And you realized that, despite what you’d thought, there was far more to this man than the surface could tell. 

You frowned, something from your memory poking at you. “Wait a second,” you said uncertainly, “What… what would he have to do with the records we found at the SHIELD base? About Hydra?” you asked, looking between T’Challa and Steve. “How do those play into this?” 

To your surprise, it was Sharon who answered. “At the time those records were made, Hydra was attempting-- not for the first time-- to recover their losses and continue working on… what they used to be researching,” she said, eyes flicking momentarily to Bucky. His jaw tightened. “I’m not excusing everything SHIELD’s done. But at that point we were trying to find holes in their processes, how they operated, in an attempt to catch them before something worse happened. It… didn’t work,” she added with disappointment. “That’s why the old files contain Barnes’, along with related… experiments.” 

So that explained those. You didn’t fully trust the explanation, but chances were it was the one that Sharon had been able to dig up, and you weren’t sure that there hadn’t been some editing done. She was smart enough to realize that, you decided. You turned to Steve next. “Did you really think that we would find something of use in there?” you asked bluntly, eyes searching his face for a straight answer. 

He didn’t keep you waiting. “There was a chance,” he said simply. “It was a gamble. We took it.” 

You supposed under the circumstances you couldn’t really blame him for that. There weren’t really any certainties in the game that you had all been playing until recently.  _ It’s not over just yet, _ you reminded yourself. 

“So… what happens now..?” you asked tentatively, looking between everyone in the room. For your part, you wanted to go home, maybe with a permanent houseguest in tow, and return to your daily life. That would be a best-case realistic scenario. But that might also not be an option. 

“Now, I have a proposal,” T’Challa said, looking straight at Bucky. “I cannot help but notice you are, as Americans say, ‘down’ a limb. I am aware it would not fix everything, but I can offer you a better replacement.” 

Bucky’s brow furrowed, and you looked up at him. This was a big offer, and it was ultimately his decision to make. And you would support him no matter what he chose. But… you thought that it might be a good idea. Generally, having two working hands and arms was useful. 

“What’s the catch?” he finally asked, gravelly undertone still present. 

T’Challa spread his hands in an open gesture. “No catch. Wakandan technology. Our best technician would be working on it, and I will vouch for her.” There was an affectionate sparkle in his eye then that you couldn’t help but notice. “Consider it part of my apology to you.” 

Bucky was silent for a long moment, finally looking down to you. Your heart warmed. He wasn’t looking to you for a straight answer, no, but he trusted your judgment. “... I think you should do it,” you said softly, running your fingers over the back of his hand. 

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “You just say that because you liked playing with my old one.” 

You gave him a sheepish look. “True as that may be, I don’t think you should pass this up,” you told him gently. “Having two working arms is better than only having one. And…” You hesitated, before delivering your next piece of reasoning. “... And it would help erase part of what was done to you by Hydra.” You knew it still haunted him. And you wanted him to get better. Maybe this was one of the steps that was needed. 

He nodded, but that wrinkle was still between his eyebrows. Ultimately this was still his decision to make. Bucky finally lifted his head, looking T’Challa in the eyes. “I accept your offer,” he said frankly, and a smile pulled at the king’s lips. It was almost a little sad, but it was also genuine. 

“I am glad. Come-- our plane leaves later today and it is best if you will be on it.” 

Bucky paused, glancing between you and Steve. You thought he was probably having the same thoughts as you were-- would the two of you in particular be able to come? “Who’s allowed on the plane?” he asked directly. 

The king paused, glancing between all present. “Captain Rogers, and of course you,” he started, then looked to you, debating. 

After a moment, you offered a slightly melancholy smile. Might be easier for everyone to not force him to make the call. “I’ll stay,” you stated. “I can find a ride home, I’m sure. Hopefully my house is still in working order, given that I haven’t paid my water bill in a month,” you added teasingly, until you saw Bucky’s face. Your smile faded. 

He wanted you to go, it was clear. You raised one of your hands, reaching up to cup his cheek with an attempt at a smile. “You’ll be okay,” you told him gently. “Steve will be with you. Nothing will happen to you. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you murmured. You suspected he didn’t really need that sort of comfort right now-- but it wasn’t comfort so much as it was reassurances. It spoke volumes about his trust in you that he showed that need to you right now. 

Bucky freed his hand, bringing it up to cover yours. His eyes never left you. “Promise me,” he said. It almost came out like an order. But you knew him better than that. 

“I promise,” you swore, running your thumb over his cheekbone and the beard he’d grown. You looked back to the room at large. “Now… If someone could give me advice on the best way to return home safely, given the mess the city’s in now, I’d appreciate it.”

* * *

 

It took another week before things settled enough with SHIELD for you to be cleared to return to your house. You stayed in contact with Sharon during that time, and she was the one who drove you home at last, keeping you updated on what SHIELD was publicly allowed to reveal. 

Captain America’s name had been cleared. The suspected culprit behind the UN bombing was also cleared (name unreleased) and the real perpetrator had been killed in action (he hadn’t been, but that was the story they were spreading). Sharon hadn’t been caught as the mole who assisted in the escape of two captives (a SHIELD agent that had died the week before was finally accused but there wasn’t anything to be done about it. That part wasn’t public, but she told you anyway). Stark and Rhodes (you still didn’t know who the second name was) were fully recovered, and as far as Stark was concerned there was nothing worse than some bruises and a bruised ego. Rhodes took a little longer, but both were in good shape. 

It was Sharon’s personal opinion that, if Barnes was going to be around you more (as she suspected and as you hoped), you find somewhere a little more… ‘in the country,’ as she put it. She even offered to help you look for apartments out there, or smaller houses that were closer to within your budget. You’d taken her up on her offer to help look, but you wanted to wait until you could get things in your house together again. Packing would be a huge undertaking, after all, though there was a slim chance you could enlist Steve and Sam’s help with the furniture. Maybe even Bucky if--   


Your absent-minded smile froze.  _ If he comes back. _ You had been taking it as a given that Bucky would return from Wakanda after his arm was set up and working again. But what if he liked it better there? What if he didn’t  _ want _ to come back? 

_ Stop it, _ you told yourself firmly.  _ He’s coming back. He was anxious, and besides, you promised to be here when he came back. _ Your anxiety needed a chill pill once in a while. 

“You okay?” 

Sharon’s voice from the driver’s side was a little bit worried, and you smiled at her, a real smile this time. It was a little bit tired, but it was a smile. “Yeah,” you told her. “Just thinking.” 

“Ah.” She let it go then, and you were glad. As much as you appreciated and respected the blonde woman, you weren’t keen on any heartfelt discussions with her anytime soon. Those were reserved at present for one man. 

She parked in your driveway, behind your car (that hadn’t been driven in months, it was going to need to see the shop before you could drive it properly again). She didn’t drive off, though, instead waiting for you to inspect your house and make sure some vital things worked before she left you there. 

Your door was locked when you tried it, and you felt a bit of amusement at the fact that whatever SHIELD agents had undoubtedly been in your house were kind enough to lock it behind them. Your home wasn’t really any the worse for wear. Some things were knocked over, but nothing was broken at first glance. Dishes were out on the counter and all the cabinet doors were open, presumably to look for hiding spaces. Many books were off of the shelves in messy piles. Cushions that had been pulled off the couch leaned against the back of it, and anywhere that  _ could _ hide a secret compartment had been searched. A quick glance in your bedroom gave you the same conclusion, but you were just glad that nothing was broken. A minor miracle, if ever you’d seen one. 

You waved at Sharon to come in, and she did so, raising her eyebrows at the chaos. “I’m not gonna ask you to help clean up,” you assured her, “But I did feel like I needed to share this with someone.” 

“I can see why,” she responded, reaching over to try the light switch. The power was out, and you huffed. 

“Well, I haven’t exactly paid my power or water bill in a couple months, even though there’s nothing to really pay  _ for _ ,” you muttered, picking up some of the pile of mail sitting on your counter and flipping through it. Some bills, a courtesy envelope telling you your water had been shut off, a pink slip from work wrapped up in a pretty envelope (not surprising), a card from family, but the majority of it was a pair of magazines and a bunch of junk advertisements that were quickly dumped in the bin. 

Sharon snorted. “Some things never change.” 

“Tell me about it. … Have you heard anything from them?” Your subtle attempt at a change of subject was, spectacularly, not so subtle. 

But she didn’t bat an eye. “I haven’t,” she admitted. “I thought if they’d reach out to anyone it would be you or Wilson, but I haven’t heard from him.” 

“In their defense I only just got my phone back,” you said with a grin that didn’t quite reach your eyes. You pulled it back out of your pocket, giving it a little wave. “You should have seen it explode when I turned it on. I didn’t think I was popular but would you believe I had no fewer than a hundred and eighty-seven messages?”

Sharon shuddered theatrically before turning back to the door. “I’m glad I wasn’t you for that. I need to head back to base, but you have my contact info,” she said, gesturing to the countertop where a slip of paper rested. “If it’s just chit chat don’t bother with that number, but if you hear from them, or if something big happens…” She trailed off, and you nodded, getting the gist of what she was saying. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know if I hear before you do,” you promised, waving briefly and bidding her goodbye. She closed your front door behind her, and you heard her engine start in the driveway. 

That was about when you exhaled slowly, leaning against your kitchen counter island and sinking down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest. 

You missed him. It was ridiculous, to miss someone this much-- even when you went off to university for the first time, you didn’t miss home or your family as much as you missed Bucky now. But it being ridiculous didn’t change the fact that you felt lonely without him. And you didn’t have a way to contact them, so the only thing to do was wait. After all, you’d promised him you’d be home when he came back, right? 

Steeling yourself to put your house back to rights, you stood up and started moving around your home like a whirlwind. Books were placed back on shelves, in the correct order. Everything in the kitchen was put back in its proper place. The rug in the kitchen and the one in front of the door were put in the washer, as was any dirty laundry you’d left (though you couldn’t actually start the washer, because your water wasn’t working). Drawers were closed and curtains were opened, beds made and floors swept. Anything that had been left in the refrigerator when you left was tossed in the garbage, which you wound up taking out more than once. Sometime in the middle of this you called both the power company and water company and paid your bills that way, and an hour after that your power was back on, so at least you had light and could charge your phone. You cleaned your house from top to bottom, and when you next glanced out the window, it was dark. 

You’d succeeded in scouring your house until it was sparkling clean, and bought yourself a few hours of being free from worry. Now it all came creeping back and you made a sound of disgust when you realized this, choosing to go to the bathroom and shower before you made yourself dinner. You were halfway undressed when you realized the absurdity of that. Your fridge was empty, and your water was still cut off. It would probably remain that way until tomorrow, or maybe the day after. 

Sourly, you dressed in clean clothes instead, trudging to the kitchen again to order food and try to keep yourself busy. If you were busy you wouldn’t worry or fret about when he was coming back. You put a movie on that you’d seen a hundred times, which in retrospect was not your finest decision since it left your mind to wander. 

Was he doing alright? Was Steve? Was his arm repaired yet? Or would they have to remove the probably ruined port first? What did one even call that thing that connected to his shoulder? Did they have more of the unscratchable and (up until recently) indestructible metal that his arm had been made from? What of the red star? Would that be staying? What if it didn’t work properly? Could they really fix it? What kind of technology did Wakanda have, and would it be enough? What if he went into an episode while he was there, and nobody was there to snap him out of it? What if Steve couldn’t? It took a taser last time, what if they  _ hurt _ him? What if he managed to hurt himself? What if-- 

Someone knocked on your door. 

You ran to it and threw it open, due to your train of thought expecting to see Bucky or Steve, possibly both. It was the delivery boy, who looked startled by the door flying open. You couldn’t hide your look of disappointment, signing the slip he offered you and taking your food from him. You’d ordered Chinese tonight, because that was the closest place you knew of. And you thought as you began to eat that it had tasted better when you’d been with the boys, or maybe that was loneliness coloring your senses. 

Once you’d eaten what you were hungry for (which wasn’t much), you stowed the leftovers in your now-working-and-clean refrigerator and curled up on the couch with a blanket from your bed. You felt just a little too lonely right now to have a bedroom all to yourself, and perhaps you’d even wake up and walk out into the hallway a little too quietly for the sake of your still-sleeping houseguest. 

You shut your eyes tightly, curling up into a ball under your blanket. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. Tomorrow held a chance of some form of contact. Tomorrow had the possibility of them returning-- of  _ him _ coming back.

Maybe tomorrow.

* * *

 

You were roused by someone knocking on your door again. You sat up, blearily looking towards your front door with confusion for a moment. It was still quite dark outside, but you could see dawn stretching its graceful fingertips across the sky out your living room window. Early, then. 

Whoever was on the doorstep knocked again, and you lurched to your feet, nearly tripping yourself with the blanket before stumbling to the door. It didn’t occur to you, this early in the morning, to check the peephole before flipping the lock and cracking the door. Your heart nearly stopped in your chest when an arm reached through the gap, but then you were pulled up against a solid chest whose smell and height you knew well, and you gasped, wrapping both arms around Bucky just as he had both tightly curled around you. 

Both. He had two arms again. 

Almost as soon as you reached this conclusion you pulled back, reaching over your shoulder to bring his left arm in front of you. It was cold metal,  _ that _ you were used to, but it was laid out differently. The slightest gaps between the plates were closed off, giving the arm a sleeker, more solid appearance. It resembled the shape of flesh and musculature more than his last one had, and the edges of the interconnected plates were touched with a metallic gold sheen. You didn’t think for a second that it was real gold, but aesthetically it was a beautiful decision. 

It was a long minute after you registered all this that you looked up at him with a shadowless grin on your face, and you were shocked to realize that it was almost matched by the smile on his. Had they sent back the same man?? 

“You’re back,” you said, choking up just a little bit as you ran your hands up to either side of his face. You were shocked by the changes a week in Wakanda had in Bucky. 

The circles under his eyes were all but gone, his now-beard was neatly trimmed, and he was  _ smiling _ . He was smiling in a way that you weren’t sure you could remember him smiling, except maybe once at Steve and once at you before he left.

“Yeah,” he responded. His voice was low and warm, still just a little bit gravelly at the edges and just as familiar as you remembered. 

You latched both arms around him again and tightened your grip, hiding your face in his chest for a moment longer and inhaling deeply. He still smelled the same too, all woody and a little bit spicy, but this time underlaid with something  _ clean _ that suited him regardless. “You’re back,” you repeated, this time a little muffled. “How did it go, aside from the obvious?” 

“It went well,” a different voice said from behind Bucky. You poked your head around Bucky’s new arm to see Steve, looking weary and jet lagged but in one piece. 

“Oh, what am I doing?! Both of you get in here, the doorstep is no place for you,” you grumbled, mostly scolding yourself as you pulled both men into your house before shutting your door again. “You guys are right on time. Sharon dropped me off yesterday and then I went on a cleaning rampage-- oh, I should probably text her today, shouldn’t I?”

“It can wait until we’re a little more awake,” Steve grated, sinking down onto your couch and tipping his head back. 

For once, Bucky looked more awake than Steve did. “I’d make you coffee but my water’s not back on yet,” you told them, heading for a seat at your kitchen island on one of the stools. Before you could get there Bucky hooked an arm around your waist, bringing you right back around to him. You gave him a look that was mostly dry, but you couldn’t help the delighted smile. 

“So. Tell me, what happened over there?” you questioned. “Because obviously something happened, you’ve gotten enough sleep for once and Steve looks like something that crawled its way out of a grave.” 

“Thanks ever so.” 

“They fixed my nightmares,” Bucky said with a breathless grin. 

Your jaw dropped. “All of them?” you managed. 

He hesitated for a moment. “Not  _ all _ of them,” he amended, “But… most of them. The majority, they said.” 

You wrapped both arms around him in excitement, grin returning as quickly as it had left. “Bucky, that’s  _ wonderful!! _ ” you exclaimed. “How-- how did they--” 

“They have a sort of brain-scanning technology,” Steve explained, while Bucky nodded. “They can adjust a person’s default sleep schedule, and tweak some reactions associated with memories.” Your eyes went back to Bucky in confusion and Steve quickly added, “He hasn’t forgotten anything, they haven’t restored anything, they didn’t touch the memories themselves-- just changed the fact that some of those will recur in dreams.”

Your face relaxed a little and Bucky pressed a kiss to your forehead. He was smiling more now than you thought you’d  _ ever _ seen him smile, and you let out a shriek of glee when he unexpectedly lifted you up against him and spun you around once. Steve looked on in tired amusement. 

“Hey, I’ve still got a guest room,” you told Steve once your feet were back on the floor. “Go use it. You look ready to drop.” 

“I think I’ll take you up on that,” he grunted, getting to his feet. It was a testament to how exhausted he was that he didn’t even argue. 

“Oh-- where’s Sam? Is he alright?” 

“He’s staying with Natasha for a few extra days to scope out his house, then he’s moving back,” Steve said over his shoulder as he walked down the hall.

You nodded in satisfaction. He was safe, then. Good. “Now, as for you... I need to let Sharon know you guys are back and in one piece,” you muttered, starting to reach for your phone on the coffee table, only for Bucky to twirl you around again. You were stopped by colliding with his chest, and you shot him a playfully suspicious look at his grin. It made him look ten years younger. 

Or, you know. Three decades. 

“I would almost think you’re trying to keep me quiet, Mister Barnes,” you stated, eyeing him. 

“What if I said I was?” he hummed low in his chest, dropping his head to rest his forehead against yours. 

You couldn’t help a shy smile, stretching up a little bit to give him a peck. That seemed okay. “Then I’d say you’d have to deal with it because I told Sharon I’d let her know.” Even in jest, you wouldn’t lie to him. He’d had enough of that. 

“Mm, try again.” 

“Wha--” Your question cut off with a quiet yelp as Bucky wrapped you to him, spinning around on one foot and falling back onto the couch with you. You were currently laying on him, with your face pressed into his chest. You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the feeling, but regardless…

You pushed yourself up with your palms, leveling an impish stare at him. Your phone was sitting on the coffee table. You could reach it-- but so could he. You intentionally looked between it and his face, and he raised an eyebrow at you. You had no idea where this teasing, playful Bucky was coming from, but you’d be lying again if you said you didn’t like it. It was good to see him this relaxed, you thought. 

_ He may never lose the qualities that made him a good soldier, including the now-astronomical chance of a relapse, _ you realized, gaze softening.  _ But that’s what makes him HIM. _ You leaned in to kiss him soundly, and his metal hand slid upwards to slide through your hair.  _ I wouldn’t have him any other way. _

Letting Sharon know could wait a few minutes more. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the final chapter! Sorry this is a day or two late, I've been out of town all weekend without my laptop. For the last time in THIS fic, huge thank you to my proofreaders who are remarkable and wonderful and phenomenal and I adore both of them! 
> 
> Enjoy!

So  _ maybe _ this box had been a little too big for you to manage. You refused to accept this fact until you were walking through the doorway with it, wobbling precariously from side to side and nearly toppling over when a pair of much thicker arms caught you, taking the box. Tipping your head around the side of it to glare at Bucky, you said, “I had that handled.” 

“Of course you did,” he agreed, hefting it before carrying it over to sit it on the floor next to the couch. 

“It was just books, it wouldn’t have mattered if I dropped it,” you muttered rebelliously. 

“Wrong.” He tapped your nose with a metal finger. “You’d hurt yourself.” 

“No way of knowing now, is there?” you shot back with a quick smile, reaching up to cup his cheek with one hand. “Damn your fast reflexes.” 

“Shame, normally you appreciate them.” 

You shook your head at him. “There’s just no way for me to come out on top of this, is there?” 

“I can think of a few ways,” he responded with a wicked grin, reaching past you to grab a bottle of water off the countertop and taking a drink. 

Playfully, you glared at him, smacking his bicep (and ignoring the fact that it was metal so it probably hurt your hand more than it hurt him). “James Barnes!! We’ve talked about this!!” 

Turning quickly, Bucky caught your wrist and darted in to give you a quick kiss. “No,  _ you _ talked about this,” he corrected sternly, but the grin on his face ruined the effect. 

You tugged your wrist free with a little effort, turning your back on him as you went to get another box from the moving truck outside. You weren’t  _ really _ upset with him, of course-- you just wanted to make him work for it. And melting into one of his kisses was  _ not _ the way to do it, even though he’d started learning pretty early on what made your knees turn into jelly and put that to good use on a regular basis. 

“Aw, ____, come on,” he whined, jogging out the door after you into the cold ‘beginning of winter’ air. You ignored him, grunting as you lifted a box half your height into your arms. Almost immediately it was gone as Bucky took it from you, leaning around it to give you the most pitiful puppy-dog-eyes you thought you’d ever seen-- and Steve’s were formidable. 

“What do you want me to do?” you demanded, unable to help the grin on your face as you selected another, smaller box. That was about the size that was left from the moving truck. 

In answer, Bucky shifted the huge box he held to his left arm so he could pull you close to him with his right. You let him, knowing exactly what he had planned and unwilling to argue with it because of the arguable benefits. His mouth slid over yours sensually, almost treating your lips delicately, and you couldn’t decide if he was the best kisser you’d ever had the pleasure of kissing, or if you were biased towards kissing him in particular just because it was  _ him _ . 

Whatever the case, you weren’t sure you’d ever get tired of kissing Bucky. 

“Mm... okay. Enough,” you finally gathered enough willpower to say, placing a shoulder against his chest and nudging him back. He looked so offended by that, you had to hide a chuckle. “We need to finish moving our things in and put some of them away.  _ Then _ we can sit back and relax,” you instructed, heading into the house with your box. 

It was a good little place, with the same square footage of your old house, but much more ‘in the country,’ as Sharon had put it. She’d followed through on her offer to help you find a new place that was a little more out of the way. This one was about an hour’s drive from where you used to live, and you’d have to drive maybe twenty minutes to get to town. From there it was another thirty or so to the city, which was relatively close, but far enough that Bucky could be at ease and there were few enough people in town that if he wore long sleeves most of the time, nobody questioned it-- or his choice of gloves. And the excuse ‘it’s a high-functioning prosthetic’ seemed to satisfy those who did have the nerve to ask. 

Absently, you placed your box down on the coffee table that you two had put into place earlier that morning, pushing your hair back behind your ears. You did flinch slightly when a cold metal arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against an unfairly warm body. How was Bucky a living heater?? He was  _ just _ like Steve in that respect. That wasn’t fair. 

It didn’t stop you from turning in his grip to bury your face in his chest, inhaling deeply. One of his hands smoothed over your hair affectionately, and you hummed in appreciation. 

“Almost done,” he encouraged, dropping a kiss on top of your head. 

“I know,” you said in a muffled voice. “Just another minute.” 

“Weren’t you the one who said we could only rest when we’d finished?” he teased gently, and you huffed at him, lifting your head. 

“Yeah. But you’re warm and it’s colder out there than it is in here,” you groused. 

“You’ve got a jacket tied around your waist.” 

“Yeah. But if I put it on I’m too hot.” 

Bucky cocked his head at you. “... Is this the part where I yell ‘hot damn’ at the top of my lungs?” 

You snorted in a most unladylike manner in an attempt to restrain your laugh-- and failed miserably. “Not bad, Barnes, you’re learning. But no, this is not that moment.” 

He shot you a grin. “Glad to know I have your approval.” 

You patted his arm and he released you so you could get over your dislike of going back into the cold air and went to get another box. He joined you, and in short order you both had the rest of the boxes carted into your new house, either piled in a messy stack in the front hall or in various other places, like the top of the stairs, or in your bedroom. Then began the arduous process of starting to find a place for everything. But aside from that, multiple pieces of smaller furniture needed reassembled, and basic necessities also needed to be extracted from the boxes. 

Luckily, the biggest pieces of furniture had been moved in the day before, like the couch and the bed, with Steve’s help. 

So that was how the afternoon went, interspersed with sneaking kisses and bumping shoulders and you two eventually ordering delivery for dinner because neither of you could find out what box the cooking stuff was in. It was only when you and Bucky were curled up on the couch that evening with your respective dishes from the pub food place that you finally leaned against him. 

He was currently laying on his back, propped up against the arm of the couch, and you were laying the same way against his chest and between his legs, one of which hung off the edge of the couch. Both of your meals were sitting on your lap, easy to access for both of you since Bucky had his arms around you anyway. 

The television wasn’t set up yet, but you could both appreciate a companionable silence, as you had since he’d first moved in with you. Funny how it was only meant to be a day or two, maybe three at most, and months later, he was still here with you. 

Despite everything he’d been through. Even after everything he’d gone through with you, or maybe that was his reasoning. Whatever the case, you decided, looking up at him with a contented smile, you were happy. And if the softly pleased smile he gave you was any indication, so was Bucky. And that was really all you could ask for with him.

“What’re you thinking?”

His voice was a low rumble that you could feel through your chest, and you smiled. “Well, I was thinking that it was funny,” you began.

“What’s funny?”

“That Steve brought you to me, intending for you to stay maybe a day or two,” you continued, tipping your head back against his chest so you could look up at him. “And then, here we are, several months later, and you’re still here.”

He hummed low in his chest, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. It was his metal one, which made your smile widen. He wasn’t afraid of touching you with it anymore, which was huge progress. You leaned into his palm with a happy hum, almost shivering at the low temperature of the metal. He ran his thumb over your cheekbone, and you relaxed against him, only opening an eye when he removed his hand from your cheek to set what would become your leftovers on the coffee table. His were long gone because Bucky was a living garbage disposal.

You couldn’t help a yawn though, and you let your head fall sideways to rest against his chest, your shoulders starting to do the same. 

“Sleep,” Bucky murmured, smoothing his hand over your hair. “I’ll carry you to bed if you want.” 

You only mumbled sleepily, snuggling a little more against his chest.

* * *

Two days later, you flattened the last cardboard box and looked around your new house with pride at having cleaned everything up and put away the contents of said boxes. Bucky reached down, picking up the pile of cardboard now meant for recycling and fixed you with a small smile.

“Happy?” 

“Happy,” you confirmed with a bright grin, waiting for him to come back inside so you could latch your arms around his neck and kiss him. You couldn’t have really done this so quickly without his help, and frankly he needed some appreciating. “Thank you. … Oh! We should celebrate!” you said cheerfully, extricating yourself from his grip and pulling your phone from your pocket to pick a 40s music playlist. You’d found yourself quite fond of the music after listening to it with Bucky and Steve on a regular basis while you were packing things from your old house. 

Something bouncy and fast-paced started playing and you dropped your phone on the couch, making an absolute fool out of yourself as you started dancing with Bucky, grabbing his hands and pulling off the most ridiculous moves you could think of. It was working, because you were both grinning like loons by the time the song ended and the next one started playing. 

For your part, you flopped over on the couch, breathing hard and giggling despite yourself. A few seconds after that, a hand came into your vision and you craned your neck to look him in the eye. He was still smiling, but it was a quieter, satisfied kind of smile, and with a curious look you took his hand and allowed him to help you to your feet. Once there, he didn’t release you, instead wrapping his other arm around your waist and starting to dance with you. It worked, what with the song that was playing now, and it wasn’t more than swaying in place, but you rested your head against his chest with a contented sigh, only to pull back almost immediately with a noise of complaint. 

“Ugh. You smell about as good as I do right now,” you muttered, and you felt more than you heard his responding chuckle. 

“We’ll shower after this,” he promised with a smile, moving to dip you back over his arm before gently returning you to your upright position. You let him, unable to stop the matching smile pulling at your own lips. 

“You, sir, are a hopeless romantic.” The words were delivered with no real weight, and the hand you had resting on his shoulder crept up to slide through his hair. He’d sweated that day, it was clear, but his hair hadn’t gone potential weeks without a wash. No, you knew for certain he’d washed his hair the night before because you had washed it for him in the shower, despite having some issues reaching. He’d even ducked down so you could get to all of his hair. 

Hands now where you wanted them, you pulled him down for a soft kiss that fit with the slow dancing you two were doing now.

“If you think I’m a hopeless romantic now, you should have seen me before the war,” Bucky teased gently after a moment. 

“I’d love to have seen you then,” you responded. You had, at one point. Just like everyone else who’d lived in the area when Captain America had been pulled from the ice, you’d been to the museum to see the new and spruced-up exhibit. You’d seen a couple of photos of a younger Bucky there, but you didn’t remember them well. Why would you bother, when you had the real thing right in front of you? 

“If you ever find photos that Steve’s got, or something media hasn’t touched yet, let me know,” you hummed absently, giggling quietly as Bucky pulled you close to him, spinning you around once or twice before setting you gently on your feet. 

You enjoyed this almost-dancing you were doing. It didn’t require knowing how to actually dance, although you had a suspicion that Bucky knew how to do that too. It left out any chance of stepping on your partner’s feet, since your feet hardly left the ground in the first place. 

The song ended, and instead of parting you slid both hands up behind Bucky’s neck, giving him a quirked smile. He returned a cooked grin, leaning down enough to give you another kiss. You held him down with you for just another moment, eyes flicking up to his when he spoke again. 

“We’re home.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered, an honest smile blooming on your face. “We’re home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we hit the end. I sincerely hope you all enjoyed the ride, and I hope I did both you and the canon characters justice! :) I'm working on three different starters for alternative Bucky/Reader fics, there's one where the reader is an artist (sculptor to be exact), one classic college AU, and a short, single-chapter one where the reader is blind! Please let me know which you'd like to see next, and I'll do my level best to get it out to you all! :) 
> 
> Have a wonderful day!


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